Téma: The Book Club

My book club meets on the first Thursday of every month. There are six of us. We are all women. We are all between forty and sixty. We have been meeting for eight years. We have read one hundred and forty-seven books. We have liked some. We have hated others. We have argued about plot twists and character motivations and whether the ending was satisfying. We have drunk wine. We have eaten cheese. We have talked about our lives. We are not just a book club. We are a thing. A thing that happens on the first Thursday. A thing that has been happening for eight years.

I am the host this month. My house is small. My living room is crowded when six women sit in it. I clean for two days. I buy wine. I buy cheese. I buy crackers. I arrange the chairs in a circle. I put the book on the coffee table. The book is a mystery. A detective novel set in London. I did not like it. I thought the ending was rushed. I wrote notes. I have three pages of notes. I am ready to argue.

They come at seven. Maria first. She is a teacher. She brings brownies. Then Diane. She is a nurse. She brings a salad. Then Pat. She is retired. She brings nothing but opinions. Then Susan. She is a lawyer. She brings wine. Then Carol. She is a librarian. She brings the book. She always brings the book. She has a copy with sticky notes on every page. She is the reason we read good books. She is the reason we read bad books too. She finds them. She brings them. We read them. We argue.

We sit in the circle. We pour wine. We eat cheese. We talk about our weeks. Maria's son is getting married. Diane's daughter is pregnant. Pat's knee is worse. Susan has a new case. Carol is retiring. Carol is retiring. She is the librarian. She is the one who brings the books. She is the one who started the club. She is the one who has been here for eight years, every first Thursday, with a copy of the book and sticky notes on every page. She is retiring. She is moving to Arizona. To be near her sister. To be near the sun. To be away from the rain and the cold and the book club she started eight years ago.

We are quiet. The circle is quiet. Carol says she will miss us. We say we will miss her. She says the club should continue. We say it will. She says she will send books from Arizona. We say we will read them. She says she will come back for the first Thursday in December. We say we will be here. We drink wine. We eat brownies. We do not talk about the book. We do not argue about the ending. We sit in the circle and we are quiet.

They leave at ten. The living room is empty. The chairs are in a circle. The wine glasses are half full. The cheese is half eaten. The book is on the coffee table. The mystery set in London. The ending I did not like. I sit on the couch. I look at the circle. I think about Carol. I think about the eight years. The first Thursdays. The books we read. The arguments we had. The wine we drank. The lives we lived. I think about next month. The first Thursday. Carol will not be here. The circle will be five. The circle will be smaller.

I open my laptop. I don't know why. I am looking for something. A distraction. A way to stop thinking about the circle. The empty chair. The books Carol will send from Arizona. I have a bookmark I saved a long time ago. I don't remember saving it. I don't remember why. I click it. The site loads. I look at it for a while. I have never gambled before. Not once. I played bingo once at a church fair. I won a candle. That was thirty years ago. But I am sitting on my couch with half-empty wine glasses and a book I didn't like and a circle that is getting smaller. I find a Vavada alternative link.

I deposit fifty dollars. Money I would have spent on wine for the next book club. I tell myself I'll play for an hour. I tell myself I'll stop when I lose. I tell myself a lot of things. I play a slot game. Something with flowers. Roses, tulips, daisies. The kind of game that looks like a garden. I bet small. A dollar a spin. I lose the first five. Down to forty-five. I lose another three. Down to forty-two. I am losing the way I expected to lose. Slowly. Quietly. Like the money was never mine.

I am down to forty dollars when I hit something. Three roses. The screen flashes. The music changes. A bonus round. I don't know what it means. I just watch. The reels spin automatically. Numbers appear. Forty dollars becomes eighty. Eighty becomes a hundred and sixty. A hundred and sixty becomes three hundred and twenty. I sit up. The wine glasses are on the table. The book is on the coffee table. The chairs are in a circle. I watch numbers climb. Three hundred and twenty becomes six hundred and forty. Six hundred and forty becomes twelve hundred and eighty. The bonus ends. My balance is twelve hundred and eighty dollars.

I stare at the screen. Twelve hundred and eighty dollars. From fifty dollars. From a game with flowers. I cash out. Every cent. I close the laptop. I sit on the couch. I look at the circle. The chairs where Maria sat. Where Diane sat. Where Pat sat. Where Susan sat. Where Carol sat. The chair that will be empty next month. I do not move for a long time.

The money hits my account two days later. Twelve hundred and eighty dollars. I use it to buy a plane ticket. To Arizona. For the first Thursday in December. When Carol said she would come back. When we said we would be here. I buy a ticket for myself. I will be there. Not here. There. In Arizona. With Carol. On the first Thursday. I buy a copy of the book. The mystery set in London. I read it again. The ending is still rushed. I write new notes. I have four pages now. I will bring them to Arizona. I will sit with Carol. I will argue about the ending. I will drink wine. I will eat cheese. I will be in the circle. The circle that is smaller but not broken. The circle that is moving but not ending.

I still play sometimes. Once a month. On the nights when I think about the first Thursdays. The books we read. The arguments we had. I find a Vavada alternative link. I deposit twenty dollars. I play the flower game. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's what I expect. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. Fifty dollars. A hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for books. For wine. For cheese. For the things we bring to the circle.

I am going to Arizona in December. I have my ticket. I have my book. I have my four pages of notes. Carol does not know I am coming. I want to surprise her. I want to sit in her living room. In her new house. In the sun. I want to see her face when I walk in. I want to sit in the circle. The circle that is six again. For one night. For one first Thursday. I want to argue about the ending. I want to drink wine. I want to eat cheese. I want to be with the women who have been with me for eight years. Who have read one hundred and forty-seven books with me. Who have liked some. Who have hated others. Who have argued about plot twists and character motivations and whether the ending was satisfying. Who have drunk wine. Who have eaten cheese. Who have talked about their lives. Who have been a thing. A thing that happens on the first Thursday. A thing that has been happening for eight years. A thing that will keep happening. In different houses. In different states. With different chairs. But the same circle. The same women. The same books. The same wine. The same cheese. The same arguments. The same ending we will never agree on. The same ending we are still writing. Together. One book at a time. One first Thursday at a time. One rose at a time.