When the books were all inventoried, and the boxes broken down,
There was nothing left for him to do but leave.
He looked at her one last time; she was filing the paperwork
And she looked beautiful to him.
“Do you know when we might have a chance to talk?” he asked.
“Next Sunday? After work, would that be okay?”
“Nothing sooner? There’s no chance we can talk before then?”
“No” a terrible, final answer he didn’t want to hear.
He walked out of the bookstore into the night.
He wanted to take her home but Mr. Langston was going her way.
He crossed that street again.
Tiptoed past Mrs. Thompson’s apartment and into his own.
He slept fitfully, unable to get her out of his mind.
He awoke with a start when the alarm went off.
Why does sleep come so easy just before the alarm?
Life isn’t fair.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
All looked the same, only the names were changed.
No phone calls, no messages, no Mrs. Thompson even.
Do I have the plague, or something? He thought to himself.
Saturday, only one more day of waiting until he could see Annie.
Actually, he had developed waiting into an artform.
The drawings on the pad by the phone would attest to that.
Will I spend my life waiting? Or do I get to live? He wondered.
Another night of tossing and turning. Ugly thoughts invaded his head.
Find someone else, she’s too much work; you never even get to see her.
Too many secrets, too many obstacles. Even Natalie was easier to see.
But who would want to be with Natalie, if he had a chance with Annie?
Sunday morning at last. Leisurely cup of coffee, sun shining in through the window.
Jeans and t-shirt, 2-days’ stubble, hair in a mess.
“Seth? This is Mr. Langston. Could you come down to the bookstore?”
His heart pounded from the urgency in bookish man’s voice. He raced out the door.
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