Take me to church.

"Are you happy?"
"Aren't you happy?"
"Have you ever been happier?"

I sat on the floor, knees drawn to my chin, surrounded by piles of his paperback books, recently liberated from their cardboard boxes.

"Yes."
"Of course."
"Not really."

He's in another room, unpacking, arranging, breaking down boxes. He checks in on me from time to time but seems unconcerned that it has taken me hours to accomplish this simple task. Each book had to be lifted carefully from its box and inspected. I read the blurb on the back of each, adjusted dust covers, admired cover art, and flipped through more than a few introductions, just to look. The pile of books I want to borrow is on the bed behind me, it's as high as the piles waiting to be shelved. They're stacked so close to me that I can't move beyond reaching for another book and precariously laying it atop its fellows. I consider building a small fort out of the books and disappearing into it. I tell him this when he appears in the doorway. He tells me to smile for the camera, and I do, but I wish he'd taken a candid photo.

Yes, of course I'm happy.
I've rarely been happier.

But is it because of the books? They're stacked so close to me I can smell the glue of their spines and the pulp of their paper. Or is it because they're his books? This collection could almost be mine, we have such similar taste in writing. But somehow they smell like him. Or perhaps everything else smells like him and I can't distinguish. Or perhaps he smells a little like books. I suppose it doesn't matter which it is – which any of it is. I'm penned in by stacks of sweet smelling books – his books – and I am happy.