Under the Paper Vault

I stepped in from the terrace and crossed the living room rug to the coffee table, where an open paperback lay abandoned spine-up, its pages splayed like the pitched roof of a pavilion. Leaving a binding bent in such fashion is an unpardonable habit, yet the structural sanctuary it created was difficult to dismiss. I stepped under the paper eaves and took a seat against the angled leaves, resting my back against the firm curve of chapter fourteen. The quiet beneath the ink-scented canopy made an unexpectedly dignified chamber to conclude the evening.