One Hundred Years Of Solitude By Gabriel García Márquez Novels & Stories

It was just a lot of questions I didn’t want at all so that’s why I don’t use the credit card on books. Pushing out a breath, I shoved the thoughts of my father to the back of my mind and refocused, running my fingers along the spines of the books I was returning. When I got to my new favorite, One Hundred Years of Solitude, I hesitated, tracing the title absentmindedly, perhaps I should give it a re-read and use it for my thesis? A voice suddenly spoke behind me, quoting a line from the book. “Death really did not matter to him, but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear, but of nostalgia.”

Adrian Hale laughed, actual laughter, and she'd heard him laugh before but not like that, not in her kitchen with her mother telling stories. She thought: I didn't know this was possible. She thought: I built the wrong thing for five years. At the door, on his way out, he stopped. He turned, the same way he always did with the one more thing, and she stood ready for it. "The book," he said. "One Hundred Years of Solitude, with the coffee ring. I left it in your bag on purpose." She looked at him. "Page 212," he said. "You'll find the margin note."

Up close, I could see better how beautiful the blue combined with honey of his left eye was, and how clear the honey color of his right eye was. Mason tilted his head. “Do you like my eyes?” I looked away. “No, they're just…” fascinating, different. “Different...” Mason said the word slowly as if evaluating something. Looking down, I could see the book resting on his lap: 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. A classic, huh? Mason lifted the book slightly. “I told you I liked to read.” "I didn't think you were telling the truth." He raised an eyebrow. "Have I ever lied to you?"