When I think of The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub, I think of love and romance. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing lovey-dovey about this story. There’s no boy-meets-girl, no smooching, no wedding in the end. It’s a buddy road trip tale about a twelve-year-old kid named Jack and his werewolf. There’s action and adventure and alternate worlds, heroes and villains and life lessons learned.

No, it’s romantic to me because the second time I read it was out loud, in bed, with a best-friend turned lover. I know what you’re thinking, awwww.  I think back on that time with a certain longing, that we could spend days in bed reading to each other, traveling together on these long adventures.

But it’s not that the romance is gone seventeen years later. I’m not thinking, “You don’t bring me flowers anymore.” I know exactly what happened. My mouth happened.

I get it from my mother this critical gene. But I figured he’d want to know if he was pronouncing something wrong. I mean, wouldn’t you want to know? Now, seventeen years later we’re getting past all that. He’s starting to ask me how to pronounce words he’s read but never heard. He’s even reading out loud to me again, mostly from his own work, but it’s a start.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 8th, 2009 at 9:11 am and is filed under road tripping. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.