I don’t read or listen to books that often lately. Far too seldom actually. It really is one of my favorite things to do when I get into it. I adore reading a good book. The intimacy you feel with the characters. How you can almost feel what they feel, and how you almost feel like you are there. Many years back I listened to a book called The Rule of Four or Den sista hemligheten in Swedish. I hadn’t heard anything about it but I got positively surprised. It was about a couple of of persons in college who researched a book as part of their final thesis. And I don’t really remember much else more than it was exciting and that I liked the characters and the atmosphere in the book. What I do remember though is one particular scene or passage that I really loved. I listened to that part over and over again. Thought I’d share it with you. I know you’ll probably never have the time to read it anyway, the book that is.


For a while she doesn’t respond. Her hands rise to her shoulders, rubbing them for warmth. I realize, after so many hints, so much contact, that she hasn’t gotten over the temperature of the room.

“Do you want my jacket?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m getting goose bumps.”

It’s impossible not to look. Her arms are covered with tiny beads. The curves of her breasts are pale, the skin of a porcelain dancer.

“Here,” I say, taking off the jacket and placing it across her back.

My right arm passes her far shoulder just for a second, but she reaches up, holding it in limbo. With me half crooked around her, waiting, she leans in. The smell of her perfume returns, carried in the bell of her hair. This, at last, is her answer.

Katie cocks her head, and I reach inside the jacket, into the dark space where it hangs off her shoulders, placing a hand on the far side of her waist. My fingers stick to the rough fabric of her gown, caught by an unexpected friction, and I find that my hold on her is tight and effortless at the same time. A strand of hair falls in front of her face, but she doesn’t brush it back. There is a smudge of lipstick just below her lip, so small that it can only be seen from a tiny distance I’m surprised to find I have reached. Then she is too close to focus on anything at all, and there is warmth over my mouth, lips closing in.