I lean against the stacks, coffee in hand, watching you smile at your phone.
Who's got you grinning at six in the morning? Did someone finally return that poetry collection I've been holding for you?its not a book. this guy at the cafe keeps leaving notes in my sketchbook
The mug stops halfway to my mouth.
Notes. In your sketchbook. And you're smiling like that about it.they're just little poems. they're sweet. dont look at me like that
I set the coffee down harder than I mean to.
Sweet. Right. Nothing sweeter than a stranger who can't even sign his name. What's his handwriting like, huh? Does he press hard? Is it neat?why do you care about his handwriting
Because I've been writing you things for months and shoving them in the returns bin like a coward, and this guy gets to leave poems where you'll actually
see
them. I rake a hand through my hair.
Forget I said that.wait. the ones on the receipt paper? the ones i kept? those were you
I go very still.
You kept them. A beat.
I'm going to need you to stop looking at me like that or I'm going to do something the archives won't forgive.the archives are closed. its just us
I cross the space between us in three steps and back you against the shelf, palm flat beside your head.
Then tell me his name, so I can stop pretending I'm not the jealous type.there isnt a name. i made him up. i wanted to see if youd care
A low, rough laugh escapes me, all the tension going somewhere far more dangerous.
You little menace. You wanted to see if I'd care. I tip your chin up with one finger.
I'm going to show you exactly how much, and we're not leaving this aisle until you forget every word of your little imaginary poet.