The Bookcase
Greg Gerke

In January his girlfriend inherited a nice bookcase from her Aunt Ruth. He came home from work one day, folded his ham slices into bow-ties and ate while examining the bookcase. "This is a quality bookcase," he said, but his mouth was full and he littered ground ham on the bookcase.
His girlfriend rejoiced over the bookcase. It looked old, like how Vienna might have once looked. He claimed to love Vienna and so she thought he would stare at the bookcase and finally let her be.
The bookcase occupied him because it was empty and it smelled like 1978 and 1978 was a good year. He was seven and eight that year. A lot of ice cream and orange soda, but he hated penmanship class.
He went to the basement for a while, but there wasn't much to look at down there. That bookcase you like is upstairs, a voice in his head told him and he returned to the bookcase with a bottle of kahlua.
At midnight he made a little bed in front of the bookcase. He sang it a three verse love song.

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