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May 22, 2010
in short short stories love sad
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Last summer

Last summer, everyday, I sat across from you in the library where you used to go to read. Across from you, I stared and admired you. You didn’t know me then, and you still don’t know me now, but I loved you.

Through the covers of the books you read and the pile of books you took home each day, I got to know you. I listed almost all of them down and read them, treating each piece of literature like a fragment of you. I loved all the books you loved, and hated all the books you hated. I thought those beautiful words connected us, made a bridge between us.

By the third week, I was ready. I sat across from your favorite table and waited. I was ready to talk to you. I had read enough of the same books and had prepared enough questions to ask and things to say to keep the conversation going forever. I had visions of us, in a garden, on a swing, reciting wondrous words to each other. I was writing a novel in my head about you and I, a magnificent love story of two highbrow fools who found love in a library, within the bounds of thousands of books written by people who were once great lovers, too.

Then you came in and you sat down across from me. The girl with the hazy eyes placed herself beside you. She did what I had always pictured myself doing, which is talk to you.

You talked, laughed, and eventually left together. From then on, I sat across from you no longer.

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