I kept glancing at him from the corner of my eyes. He was bent over the coffee table, his black hair striping over his eyes and swaying to and fro as he read from the textbook in front of him.
I had read enough romance novels and watched enough movies to know what love feels physically, to your heart and stomach. I shelved the books, looking at the author and title, turning now and then to look at him. He was wearing the green sweater again, the one I liked; the only one I had seen him in. He was waiting for me somehow, but I was working anyway and wouldn’t be done until six o’clock.
I finished with the first box and moved onto the next and he glanced up at me as I pulled the box cutter open and slashed the tape. His brown eyes washed over me as I looked up to him, and if by instinct I asked, “May I help you?” He smiled and shook his head and began to take notes, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his legs.
I couldn’t help but think what a fool I must have made myself look. He was only sitting down, perfectly comfortable, with a book. I saw him several days ago, asking another assistant where to find that book. Reference Section, under the author’s of C-D, I thought to myself as I watched the other associate walk over to the computer to find its listings. Mandy Hawking, what an idiot. I watched her stride with him at her heels, past the cookbook section, realizing the book he looked for was at the other end of the bookstore. But, kind and helpful, I said nothing to her and continued shelving books.
He got up and walked over to the coffee bar and before I knew it he was back taking notes. I watched him behind shelves, not taking my eyes on him, but fearing his glance. I didn’t even know his name, but I wanted him badly. It’s this exact type of wanting that leads many people, religious maniac, political “minds”, and criminals, to their impulsive and, sometimes tragic, actions. I had to keep my distance, but for what price? He was all alone now, I could probably think up an excuse to talk to him: but first I needed one.
He got up again and headed towards the restroom, leaving his coffee on the table. My criminal mind thought up a plan and I began to walk over to where it was placed, checking to be sure he was still gone. I strode in front of the table and quickly kicked it, shaking it. The coffee spilled, but not in the direction I hoped it would, it fell against the surface, cover opening, releasing a sea of brown steamy liquid, straight onto the text book and notes. My face flushed red as onlookers turned behind paperbacks to laugh at me.
“Oh no no no!” I muttered to myself, running to the back room to grab some cleaning supplies. When I returned he was hovering over the mess, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. He turned to see me with the paper towels and a horrifyingly embarrassed look on my face. He smiled when he saw the look; it gave him satisfaction I suppose, to know that I had, indeed, learned my lesson.
“I’m so, so sorry. I was walking and – I’m sorry!” I attempted to smile but ended up with a puckered up expression. He shook his head and exhaled into the air. His delicate lips formed the perfect O- shape. I approached and bent over to wipe of the mess. “It’s not your fault; I should have at least closed the book.” I felt a pang in my heart. He wasn’t angry at me; or just wasn’t showing it?
He bent over and helped me wipe up the mess, explaining it was due for a project, but thankfully, every previous day he went home and typed it all up. I didn’t officially feel terrible, but I felt bad enough thinking of how he had to redo what he had. And we talked.
“My name is Alex by the way,” he smiled at me. I smiled back. “My name is Gloria.”
“Gloria, that’s my favorite name,” Alex smiled and looked at his watch. It was nearly three and he began to pack up the drenched remains of his ‘project’ and I turned to go back to work. I began to read the book titles again, a new shipment of romance novels, hot off the press. I turned to face him one more time, but as if it had happened in an instant, I saw him in the arms of a blond girl. She was short, slim beyond belief, the typical “Hollywood-fictional-playboy-model” type. Inside I could feel the back of my head throb with intense pain as I watched her wrap her arm around his waist as they walked out of the bookstore.
I could have cried; oh how I wanted to cry! I came to realize that every love story has its issues, and currently the one in my mind was Alex’s waist-clinger. I made way for the next book I picked up and, staring oddly at the cover, read: If it’s Love, Why did it End? I continued working, wondering if one day I might be able to write a love novel, wondering if I would find it.
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