This work is copyright M.A. Mohanraj 1995, all rights reserved. Please don't repost this or make it publically accessible via FTP, mail server, or archive site without my explicit permission. Permission is granted for one hard copy for personal use.
She sits at a small white table, in a badly molded plastic chair, slightly southwest of his counter. Her eyes are fixed on the pages of the mystery novel in her hands. Every ten pages she allows herself a quick glance up, to photograph his face so she can hold the memory there while she reads on. She hopes for and fears the moment when he glances up as well, but the minutes and then hours crawl by and he never looks up at all.
His name is Alex. He does not look up because he knows what he will see. One long look when she first walked in, her short loose skirt rising high in a momentary breeze. One long look and the picture is painted in his mind, forest green fabric against oaken skin. He longs to be alone with her in the woods, and wishes he had the courage to sing her love songs by a mountain lake. He does not look at her again while the clock ticks softly above his head. Two o'clock. Three o'clock. Four.
Manya uncrosses her legs and stands up, the green chiffon falling loose and cool against her skin. She closes the novel firmly, finished. If you asked her now, she might remember the name of a character or two, but would not be able to tell you what happened thirty pages ago. It is twenty minutes to five p.m., twenty minutes to closing. If she wants to check anything out, she must do it now; in five minutes, the librarians will start turning people away. Agatha Christie falls off the shelf and into her hands. Nemesis in paperback, black words on mostly white cover. She turns towards the counter, and sees that he is overwhelmed in a sudden rush of eager readers who know this is their last chance to check out the books that they will read at lunch on Monday. She sinks back into the ugly orange chair and opens the book.
Alex has to look up when the first person steps up to the counter. As he takes books from sweaty palms he cannot help but see black hair curtaining her face as she bends over the book. She has barely started, and he is glad. It means she will come back to finish it another day. He promises himself that if she does return, he will say hello, or ask if he can help her with anything. One after another, the readers step through the magnetic gate and collect their books on the other side. A reader blocks his view of her for several seconds. When he looks that way again, she is gone.
Manya stands behind two large women whose flabby arms overflow with books. Her slim figure with a single volume is invisible. It is 4:48 now, and it is pure luck that there are still people in line. Otherwise the counter would have closed by now and she would have had no excuse to walk up to him. She resolves to ask a question when she gets to the head of the line, but as she starts considering what to say, the large women step through the gate and are gone.
Alex nervously reaches out, and his dry hands brush her warm ones as he takes the mystery novel. He wishes that she had ten or twenty books instead, to give him time to think. He notes amber flecks in brown eyes, and adds them to the painting in his mind. He offers, silently, a plastic bag, and she nods acceptance. Book in bag, he hesitates a moment before putting them on the far counter and waving her through the gate. She suddenly smiles up at him, then bites her lip. The very last reader stands behind her and sighs heavily.
Manya silently curses her frozen tongue and the man so obviously behind her. She smiles again. When Alex returns nothing but a steady gaze she sighs inwardly and steps through the gate. She scoops her bag up from the counter and a green slip of paper settles to the bottom. Glad of an excuse to linger, she rests the bag again on the counter and begins to read.
Alex watches as she reads from top to bottom, his breath held in -- tightly. Then he sees her carefully fold the sheet and tuck it safely inside the book inside the bag. Before she can look up at him, he swivels away. The door closes softly behind her, and he begins to stamp the large pile of books before him. A small smile stretches across his face, defusing the last reader's irritation. And as Alex stamps each book, he encloses a slim green piece of paper that he knows the man will throw away --
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