He sat at his desk, facing the boxes of books that he had to unpack, to claim the space as his, at least temporarily.  On the desk so far, he had his textbooks standing neatly on one corner, his desk lamp, and some pictures.  There was a picture of his mother, who had left his world many years ago, some of him and his father, some photos which his father had taken, and most importantly, the picture that Ami had given him.  He tore his eyes away from the smiling picture, and continued to sort through the books.  His hands reached in, and removed several books, until he saw a leather bound volume that his mother had given him a long time ago.  It was a book of sonnets, Shakespeare’s sonnets.  Strange, how some things just seemed to appear at the right time.  He desperately wanted to reread sonnet 116 again, to give him strength, perhaps for him to wait for her to return…

Sonnet 123
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
 This I do vow and this shall ever be;
 I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

    She gasped as the doors to the library opened, exposing a large collection of leather-bound volumes and hardback books, science, physics, chemistry, maths, all the books that she had ever wanted to read but hadn’t the chance. Two Romanian pillars framed the doorway, leading to two steps down, and two large colonial armchairs facing each other, separated by a table resting on navy blue carpeting beside arched white/golden framed window that reached to the floor. Past the point of the armchairs were rows and rows of books, Ami stepped towards the books hesitantly, and soon found her wandering in and out of the shelves in a mesmerized fashion.  While walking, the orderly fashion which the books had been placed did not escape her quick eye, and she soon felt at home, with her fingertips drifting over the spines of the books.
 

    “Urawa! Dinner!”
    “Yes father!”
    He stood from his desk, glad to escape from the clutches of the poem in front of him, as he turned the lights off, he opened the windows a slightly as if to let the ‘bad’ air disperse from the room. He hurriedly turned away and rushed down the stairs to join his father, closing his bedroom door behind him.  As the door closed, a breeze of air invaded the room through the window crack that had been opened, flipping the pages of his sonnets to yet another sonnet.  A tragic sonnet of heartbreak, unrequited love…

Sonnet 167
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

    He looked at her, drifting between the shelves of the books, almost like she was gracefully dancing and she weaved in and out. For a moment, he was speechless, her smile, and the look of surprise on her face rewarded him for all the time that he had spent to buy the books for her. Walking towards the table, he reached downwards to the draw, and pulled out a chess-set.  “May I tempt you to a game of chess with me?”
 

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