Reading In The Nude
Stories in the Tiny Worlds Sketchbook are like a pencil sketch with words; loose, unrefined and not wholly a thing. But I like them and think there’s something here you might like, too.
The two men sat in their usual corner of the retirement home’s common room, the late afternoon sun casting long stripes across the worn carpet. Most of the residents had retired to their rooms for naps, leaving the space still and quiet. But these two lingered, as they always did, spinning tales and sharing philosophies.
The first man, dressed in a silk robe, crossed one leg over the other and sipped his tea. “I only write when I’m dressed for it. Silk for thrillers—smooth and slippery, like the plot twists. You need to feel like the story’s seeping through you, right?”
The second man, draped in a tweed jacket over his worn pajamas, nodded thoughtfully. “Same here. But for mysteries, it’s tweed all the way. Makes me feel like I’m out solving the case, like every word I type could crack it wide open.”
“And the pipe?” the first man teased, gesturing to the unlit burled pipe sitting on the table beside his friend.
“Essential,” the second man replied, tapping it lightly. “Even if I can’t smoke it anymore, it gets me in the zone.”
They both chuckled, but the second man’s smile turned up, secretive. “But when I read,” he said, “it’s a whole other story. I strip down—nothing but me and the book. That’s how the words truly get in, unfiltered.”
The first man leaned back, his silk robe shifting with the motion. “Same here. Writing needs the costume, the illusion. Reading, though? That’s where you let everything fall away.”
The door creaked open, and Nurse Clara entered with her usual cheery efficiency. “Everything alright in here, gentlemen?” she asked, glancing at the thermostat as she passed.
“Perfectly fine,” said the first man with a wry grin. “But if you’re adjusting that thing, make it warmer. My creativity thrives at seventy-five.”
“More like seventy-eight,” the second man muttered, wrapping his tweed jacket tighter.
Clara smirked as she fiddled with the dial. “Just keeping it comfortable for everyone. And don’t worry, I’ll be back with your meds soon.”
As she left, the two men shared a conspiratorial glance. “She thinks we’re crazy,” said the first man, chuckling.
“Maybe we are,” replied the second, shrugging. “Who else sits here debating costumes like they’re knights preparing for battle?”
“Knights,” mused the first man. “Good call. For fantasy, I wear a full wizard’s robe. Velvet, stars, the works.”
“Velvet?” the second man said, eyebrows raised. “Too heavy. I’m more of an adventurer—leather vest, boots, a satchel over my shoulder.”
“And for horror?” the first man asked.
“Oh, horror’s simple,” said the second man with a grin. “A tattered bathrobe, maybe with a hood. Enough to feel the dread but not scare the staff.”
“For me, it’s all trench coat and fedora,” the first man replied. “The shadows do the rest.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the room warm with camaraderie and the faint hum of the heater. After a while, the second man broke the quiet. “You ever think about the people reading this? What they’re wearing?”
The first man tilted his head, considering. “What about the people reading this?”
“Hmm,” the second man said, leaning forward. His expression turned serious, almost haunted, as his gaze drifted not to the window, nor the door Clara had passed through, but somewhere else—past the edges of the room.
The first man followed his line of sight. His brow furrowed as his gaze scanned the space around him, pausing here and there as if seeing something just out of reach. Slowly, his focus narrowed, and then he looked directly to the edges of this screen. He tilted his head, peering past the bar of open tabs, past the Tiny Worlds logo at the top.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Yes. I suppose they’re out there, aren’t they? Watching. Reading.”
The second man sat back in his chair, but his eyes didn’t waver. Now they roamed higher, drifting over what seemed to be nothing but empty air, but with each movement, his eyes narrowed, searching. He scanned past the corner of the page, then up, as though following the faint glow of a screen. Finally, his stare locked on something far beyond the room.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
The first man nodded slowly. “Oh, I see them.” His lips curled into a sly smile. He sat up straighter, adjusting his silk robe. “They’re reading. Right now.”
There was a long silence between them as their focus deepened, their eyes locked, just beyond the veil.
The second man finally spoke, his voice a low rasp, “You.” He pointed, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Yeah, you. Sitting there, reading this story. How are you dressed?”
The first man leaned forward, his silk robe pooling around him like a ripple. “Are you in your coziest sweater, maybe curled up with a mug of tea? Wrapped in a blanket like a proper mystery reader?”
“Or maybe something dramatic?” the second man added, his grin sharp now. “A trench coat, a fedora for noir. A wizard’s robe for fantasy. Or—” he paused, his tone growing daring, almost accusatory—“nothing at all. Sitting there, bare, letting the story touch you completely.”
The first man raised an eyebrow, his face narrowing as though inspecting a response only he could hear. “It matters, you know. How you approach it. How you show up. A story can only take you as far as you’re willing to go.”
The second man gave a knowing nod. “So? What’s it going to be? Are you fully in it? Fully here? Or are you just skimming, pretending to be a part of this world while keeping your distance?”
The two men stared for a long moment, their eyes scanning, lingering as though searching the unseen space for an answer. Looking at the reader.
Their voices softened, as if speaking directly to the reader now:
“Think about it,” the first man said, a smirk in his tone.
“Because we are,” the second said, adding a small chuckle. And a wink.
The first laughed at this, his voice boisterous and gravely.
And then, just as suddenly, they turned away, the moment breaking like a ripple in still water. Their attention returned to the quiet room, the thread of their conversation picking up where it left off.
Beyond the common room, beyond the edges of the page or screen, the question hung in the stillness, waiting. Waiting for you.
Music to read by:
Cast Away - Alan Silvestri
Oh man I loved this.... and for the record, I am wearing what my wife refers to as my "library sweater"...
The characters of a story who are writers talking to readers of the story. What a concept! I was fully in it, J.