Man Reading: A Short Story
By Dave
He woke late to the soft gray of a rain-washed morning. No alarm. No obligations. Just the cats, stretched long and still beside him, their breathing slow as the rhythm of the storm outside. The house was quiet—peaceful, undisturbed. He moved without hurry, padding barefoot into the kitchen. The lights were still on then.
He brewed coffee using his French press, the glass fogging gently as the grounds bloomed and fell. He liked the ritual of it. The quiet dignity of making something for himself without the rush of need. He poured a mug and stepped onto the porch, holding the warmth in his hands while rain whispered across the yard. He placed a bowl of food out for Katy, his porch cat. She didn’t come, but he knew she’d find it. She had recently had kittens—hidden somewhere under a shed or inside the ivy, nursing in the hush of spring’s return.
Back inside, he sat with his coffee and opened his book—Stephen King’s Cell. The plot moved fast, but he read slowly, letting the tension stretch like the rain across the windows. Halfway through a chapter, the power flickered once. Then again. Then fell silent.
No hum. No lights. No show buzzing in the background. Just the sound of rain and the soft creak of the house settling. He took it as a sign. He set the book aside, stretched out on the couch, and let the stillness carry him into sleep. The cats joined without question, one tucked behind his knees, another curled in the crook of his arm. When he woke again, the sky outside had shifted. The light had changed.
The power was back.
He moved through the afternoon in slow turns. He made himself dinner—not rushed, not reheated. Something warm from scratch. He thought of how long it had been since he cooked for no reason but that he could. He cleaned the dish. Washed the French press. Moved quietly, like someone visiting his own life.
Later, he returned to his book. The couch welcomed him back into its familiar shape. The cats resumed their quiet guard. Outside, the rain softened. He flipped through the pages slowly, without guilt. He wasn’t reading for escape. He wasn’t reading to learn. He was reading to be still.
It reminded him of a painting—John Singer Sargent’s Man Reading. He hadn’t thought of it in years, but now the image was clear: a man slouched into a book, pipe resting forgotten in his mouth, utterly absorbed. Not performing reading. Being with it. That was what Sargent understood—that stories aren’t just consumed, they settle inside us. They shift the room. They shift us.
As twilight crept in, he stepped out onto the porch again. The rain had thinned to a hush. The wind chimes moved gently above him, catching a rhythm only they understood. He lit his pipe and sat back, watching the world continue at its own unhurried pace. Somewhere out there, Katy nursed her young, hidden in the safety of quiet shadows. He liked knowing that new life was near. That the world didn’t need his interference to go on being beautiful.
Rest, he thought, isn’t selfish. It’s sacred. Necessary. Rest is not idleness, he remembered reading once, but peace in motion. The brain needs slowness. The soul needs silence. He had given himself both today. Not as a reward. Not as escape. But as a return.
When he went inside for the last time, he sat down once more. Picked up the book. Turned another page. The light from the lamp curled around him like warmth. The cats sighed into sleep beside him. The story carried him forward, gently.
And as the final minutes of the day slipped away, he smiled to himself—content, unhurried, and fully, deeply present.
Sometimes, he thought, doing nothing is the most honest thing we can do.