Basil and Isabelle were lovers, and lovers of books, each in their own way.
It was books that first brought them together. Words on a page, smell of books both old and new, everything about printed stories made them passionate, emotional, erotic. They loved each other, and they loved each other. They loved books, and they loved their books.
They began innocently. A glass of wine at a library fundraiser. A bite of chocolate, then two. A dinner, a book club.
Soon they were on the bed, under the covers. Always, Basil made sure to give Isabelle first run, and as many more as she could handle, for his was a messier affair.
After many years, many titles, they passed, leaving only their sticky, decomposing bodies to join their sticky, decomposing books. The house was torn down rather than cleaned out; the newspapers led to longer stories, led to great epics written of the couple of who loved each other as they loved their books.