beyond share a word with you. I’m married, and I’m not so far gone to have overlooked the large wedding ring on your left hand .
Seated at the signing table, I see you get in line with a copy of my book pressed to your chest. You’re 20 people back. I scarcely realize what I’m doing as I sign the books in front of me. I only notice that you’re getting closer and closer. And I’m trying frantically to think of something to say, some way of communicating what I feel about you; some way of telling you that if life had worked out differently and we were both single, I would marry you without knowing your name . Is that insane? I’d make love to you, take care of you and protect you always from the ills of the world. I would shelter you. I would pull you desperately against me and…
Before I realize it, you’re standing at the front of the line looking down at me. You look as confused as I feel, a mixture of nervousness, desir e, helplessness and excitement.
You hand me a copy of my book.
“Can I make it out to anyone?” I ask.
You shake your head.
“Your signature is more than enough,” you say.
I melt into your smile. I know it’s impossible, but I want to take you by the hand and run out of the bookstore. I want to find some isolated field and lay with you for hours, touching every part of you on a blanket. I want to ask you questions: What was your childhood like? Are you happy with how your life turned out? What’s your dream travel destination? Then, I want to buy plane tickets and take you there.
Instead, I stare down at a blank page of my book and start scribbling. I scarcely think about what I’m writing, but this comes out: “Meet me, please, after the signing, at the fountain behind the store.”
I sign the book, “Your Faithful Servant, Thomas.”
You walk away and I follow you with my eyes, hoping desperately you’ll open the book and read what I wrote. Instead, you slip out of sight behind a shelf full of Dr. Seuss books.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, the last book’s been signed. The signing table’s back in the employee break room, and there I am shaking hands with the store manager, saying “Thank you” and “Goodbye.”
I leave the bookstore in a hurry, and I’m almost running to the fountain when I see you waiting on a nearby bench. My book is propped up on your knees. I slow my pace feeling as if all the a ir’s been sucked from my chest.
“You got my message?” I ask.
“Which message?” you ask.
“ The one I wrote inside your book.”
“ Oh, I haven’t looked yet,” you say.
I bite my lower lip, and you immediately start laughing.
“ Of course I got your message,” you say. “Although I must admit I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.”
Your voice is lyrical, magical in my ears. It’s as if God set out to mold a woman specifically fo r me, and he’s placed you there in front of me on the fountain like an angel. I want to taste you.
“ I’m not sure why I asked you here,” I say. “But I wanted to see you. I wanted to learn about you.”
“ That sounds creepy,” you say. Then, after a pause, “but I’m glad you asked.”
I smile and we’re both quiet for a moment.
“Do you want to do something?” I ask. “Play a game with me?”
“ So long as it’s not doctor,” you say, your eyes glimmering in the light reflected off the fountain.
“ How about we pretend we’re not married?” I say. “Let’s imagine we’re in college with nowhere to go, no one to answer to and no bills to worry about.”
“ We can pretend we’re entirely different people," you say.
“ Exactly,” I say.
“ And what would be the advantage of that?” you ask.
“ I suppose we could flirt,” I say.
You smile. “Then, my answer’s ‘yes.’”
I stand up and hold out my hand, “Come with me.”
You stand, grasping my hand. We walk outside across the pavers and open grass, a fountain shooting water twelve feet in the air behind
Seated at the signing table, I see you get in line with a copy of my book pressed to your chest. You’re 20 people back. I scarcely realize what I’m doing as I sign the books in front of me. I only notice that you’re getting closer and closer. And I’m trying frantically to think of something to say, some way of communicating what I feel about you; some way of telling you that if life had worked out differently and we were both single, I would marry you without knowing your name . Is that insane? I’d make love to you, take care of you and protect you always from the ills of the world. I would shelter you. I would pull you desperately against me and…
Before I realize it, you’re standing at the front of the line looking down at me. You look as confused as I feel, a mixture of nervousness, desir e, helplessness and excitement.
You hand me a copy of my book.
“Can I make it out to anyone?” I ask.
You shake your head.
“Your signature is more than enough,” you say.
I melt into your smile. I know it’s impossible, but I want to take you by the hand and run out of the bookstore. I want to find some isolated field and lay with you for hours, touching every part of you on a blanket. I want to ask you questions: What was your childhood like? Are you happy with how your life turned out? What’s your dream travel destination? Then, I want to buy plane tickets and take you there.
Instead, I stare down at a blank page of my book and start scribbling. I scarcely think about what I’m writing, but this comes out: “Meet me, please, after the signing, at the fountain behind the store.”
I sign the book, “Your Faithful Servant, Thomas.”
You walk away and I follow you with my eyes, hoping desperately you’ll open the book and read what I wrote. Instead, you slip out of sight behind a shelf full of Dr. Seuss books.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, the last book’s been signed. The signing table’s back in the employee break room, and there I am shaking hands with the store manager, saying “Thank you” and “Goodbye.”
I leave the bookstore in a hurry, and I’m almost running to the fountain when I see you waiting on a nearby bench. My book is propped up on your knees. I slow my pace feeling as if all the a ir’s been sucked from my chest.
“You got my message?” I ask.
“Which message?” you ask.
“ The one I wrote inside your book.”
“ Oh, I haven’t looked yet,” you say.
I bite my lower lip, and you immediately start laughing.
“ Of course I got your message,” you say. “Although I must admit I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.”
Your voice is lyrical, magical in my ears. It’s as if God set out to mold a woman specifically fo r me, and he’s placed you there in front of me on the fountain like an angel. I want to taste you.
“ I’m not sure why I asked you here,” I say. “But I wanted to see you. I wanted to learn about you.”
“ That sounds creepy,” you say. Then, after a pause, “but I’m glad you asked.”
I smile and we’re both quiet for a moment.
“Do you want to do something?” I ask. “Play a game with me?”
“ So long as it’s not doctor,” you say, your eyes glimmering in the light reflected off the fountain.
“ How about we pretend we’re not married?” I say. “Let’s imagine we’re in college with nowhere to go, no one to answer to and no bills to worry about.”
“ We can pretend we’re entirely different people," you say.
“ Exactly,” I say.
“ And what would be the advantage of that?” you ask.
“ I suppose we could flirt,” I say.
You smile. “Then, my answer’s ‘yes.’”
I stand up and hold out my hand, “Come with me.”
You stand, grasping my hand. We walk outside across the pavers and open grass, a fountain shooting water twelve feet in the air behind
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