Dying to Know You Read Online Free Page B

ask.”
    “Thank you, good sir. Same goes for my books and you reading them.”
    “One day, one day. Promise.”
    “And by the way,” I said, “as we’re talking about plumbing, could you pull over somewhere suitable, at your earliest convenience. My old man’s plumbing isn’t as efficient as it used to be and my morning coffee is on the way out.”
    He smiled and after half a mile or so pulled into a lay-by.
    There’d been rain in the night. The hedgerow behind which I relieved myself smelt of rotting vegetation and the spoor left by other travellers observing the calls of nature.
    When we were on our way again, I said, “What would you like to do about the letter on love to Fiorella? Would you like me to draft something while you’re fishing?”
    Karl didn’t reply at once, then said, “I’ve been thinking. I know I asked you for help. But it’s a bit of a cop-out for me, isn’t it?”
    I kept quiet, waiting for him to go on.
    Which he did after an uncomfortable silence. “Anyway, what I’ve done is I’ve written, I mean I’ve tried to write, well, I have, I’ve written, it’s only a few lines, a try at it, about love, because I think I should give it a go.”
    “Great!” I said. “That’s great, Karl! And you’ll send it?”
    He glanced at me, the car wobbled, he attended to his driving again, and said, “Yes, but I thought you might have a look at it while I’m fishing, and, you know, tidy it up a bit maybe, or make a few suggestions.”
    “Be glad to.”
    “We’re nearly there.”
    “Not far off,” I said, checking the map. “Listen to what Mr. William Wordsworth wrote about the place many years ago:
And again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion …
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro’ the woods
How oft my spirit has turned to thee! ”
    “Sounds like he liked it,” Karl said.
    “He did.”
    “And sounds like you like that stuff.”
    “Poetry? I do.”
    “Don’t know how you remember it.”
    “The same way you remember how to plumb a bathroom, I suppose.”
    “Like you said, every man to his trade.”
    “What I said was, every man to his last. I took my metaphor from the cobblers.”
    “And it sounds like a load of old cobblers to me.”
    “Could be,” I said.
    “Only kidding,” he said.
    “Me too,” I said.
    “Fiorella writes poetry.”
    “Really?”
    “I could show you some if you like. I’ve no idea if it’s any good.”
    “Everybody has to start somewhere. You should see my stuff when I was her age. Embarrassing!” I said, and, checking the map again, added, “Take the second to the right and go straight on to the next lay-by.”

I
    How we dote on gear.
    The clothes, the gadgets, the tools of our chosen pleasures.
    With many people, perhaps most, all this clobber appeals because of our obsession with fashionable regalia.
    I sometimes wonder whether most people choose their hobbies because they lust after the gear more than for the benefits of the activities themselves.
    Togged up for fishing, Karl didn’t just look the part, he was the part. And he was so adept with his rod and line it was hard to imagine him ever being a learner. While he was fishing, he was a man at home with himself.
    I noticed his fishing togs and his gear were well used, andnot only well used but old-fashioned. Perhaps he couldn’t afford new stuff and had bought it all secondhand?
    II
You want to know about love what I think about it but I don’t know about it not like you mean. I Googled it and it said there are a lot of kinds of love and I think you only mean what people call true love which I don’t think is such a good word because love can only be true because if its not its not love is it. anyway all I can tell you is I like being with you and think about you all the time—well not all the time, you