Monday Evening

She comes in every Monday evening, exactly an hour before closing.

Some days, she wanders dreamily among the shelves until the closing announcement, a finger sliding lovingly along the multicolored spines of the books. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with sleepiness, scan the shelves for ones that catch her attention. She pulls down the book, reads the description, flips through the pages, and ponders whether or not to add it to the growing pile she carries nonchalantly balanced in the crook of her right arm.

Other days, her steps are purposeful, her stride long and steady despite the spindly towering heels she always wore. She walks quickly to the shelves of requested books on hold and pulls down the stack wrapped in rubber bands and scrap paper with her name on them.

He doesn’t like those days so much, because she’s in and out within ten minutes and it doesn’t give him time to track her with his eyes, to ponder or dream of the possibilities.

Her dresses always swirl around her knees as she goes up to the checkout desk. He likes to watch her come towards him, her intelligent eyes gleaming with recognition, and he pretends for just a moment that she’s here just to see him. She says hello in her low musical voice, asks how he is doing. He smiles at her and says he’s doing fine, just fine. His hands are quick as he scans the books into the computer system. He doesn’t pay attention to them. They know what to do without him telling them. Instead, he pays attention to her, asking how she’s doing, asking after her family, what she’s been doing in her life. She regales him with quick, humorous bits and pieces that he stores in his memory to remember later when he’s alone at home. Too soon, he finds his hands empty, the books neatly piled on the counter. She takes them into her arms, holding them close and he looks at them longingly, enviously. As she turns to leave, he quickly calls out to her the due date of the books, and she always, always turns back, flashing one quick crooked smile in his direction, says thank you. He always, always says your welcome but she’s already gone with her long easy strides, heels clacking on the linoleum, the heavy glass door swishing closed behind her.

One day, he thinks, as he does every Monday evening. One day, I’ll tell her I’m in love with her. He knows he won’t. He always sees the simple silver band on her left hand, right before she walks away from him and he knows he won’t.