I love my books, loyal, dependable, unlike that bastard I’d married. You always knew where you were with a book.
He virtually emptied our town house when he left me, stripping the walls of fine art and plasma TVs, all paid for by his jewel smuggling sideline. He thought I didn’t know. After 30 years of marriage I knew about everything, especially his nineteen year old girlfriend. He left my books though, worthless he called them.
I pull a copy of Wuthering Heights from the oak shelf and open the cover. Diamonds sparkle where pages once sat.
I love my books.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. Read the other entries here.