Hardcover.

Alexander's life was a history book. It took prize position on his coffee table and guests were invited to browse through it, as he brewed coffee, or boiled pasta. Now and then he would direct me to a particular article or a photograph, something he felt was important, and I would eagerly do as instructed, flipping through the pages trying to absorb it all, the words, the pictures, thirstily scanning for his name, his face -as desperate to know his past as he was to share it. He believed it said something about him, and I believe it did too, but perhaps not what he thought.

It took me a while to realise that this wasn't just his past. This was him. He was a series of anecdotes, of his exes and old friends and old tours past.  Being a sucker for nostalgia, it was something I found charming at first. I could relate, I thought. I knew what it was like to miss people and places and things. To be in love with a golden era. But he was still chasing that past. Any real extra time or money was spent in an attempt to re-visit it. Any extra wall space was dedicated to exhibiting it. I had been there too. 

The anecdotes became repetitive. The details, a little too familiar. The motives, obvious and boring.
Finally, I got it. I wasn't in that book, and I never would be. That's the thing with books, once they're published, out in the world, resting on bookshelves or tucked under pillows. They're final, they don't change.

I got it, but I'm not sure he did. Moving on requires more than a plane ticket and a new health card. Growing involves more than fucking someone new. "You are not your fucking khakis." Nor are you your vinyl collection nor your French press nor your very lovely coffee-table book, not even if you're in there.