3. THE LIBRARY
834 Words
3. THE LIBRARY On a mid-September evening,
With the weather being pleasant and the breeze being gentle,
I take a walk on the streets all by myself,
People scurrying about,
The street is mildly populated.
That’s when I first see her,
Just in front of me by the traffic light.
Immediately,
She stands out from the rest,
There is something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on,
Maybe it’s her brown hair that are left open to flow in the wind,
Or her sapphire blue eyes that have a certain depth to them,
A jawline so prominent, it pierces my heart just looking at it,
A pleasant smell emanating from her,
Not too faint, and nor overwhelming,
A lavender perfume perhaps.
She’s wearing a black and white chequered shirt,
And a casual grey frock underneath,
A shiny brooch around the right cuff,
Minimalistic fashion but she pulls it off so well,
Hoping she’ll notice me,
And not having the courage to approach her myself,
I just keep staring at her from afar,
I probably look ridiculous but I’m spellbound.
She merely casts one look at me,
Flashing a smile,
All I can do is return one back sheepishly,
And as the signal turns green,
She turns around, walking away.
Something inside me snaps as my legs subconsciously start tailing her.
Across the street,
Walking for a couple of blocks now,
As I continue to follow her awkwardly,
Trying to muster up enough courage to walk up to her and talk.
Unaware of my presence,
She turns the corner and walks into a library.
Maybe I should follow her in?
Or what if she thinks of me as a creep?
But what if I never get to see her again?
Still undecided,
I take a deep breath and swing open the library door,
Scanning around and hoping to catch a glimpse of her,
I walk around in a daze,
I’m still not quite sure what I’m doing.
After a few minutes of aimless walking,
I see her by a table,
Clearly engrossed in a book.
So this isn’t a good time for me to ask her number.
I guess I’ll just wait for a while.
I quietly grab the first book to come to my hand from the closest shelf,
And seat myself down on a table opposite to hers.
Under the pretext of reading,
My eyes keep slipping over in her direction,
Her little nose that wrinkles up when she tries to focus,
Her lips silently mouth out everything she’s reading,
And the way she turns pages over,
If only I could walk up to her,
If only I wasn’t so intimidated,
I’d love to get to know her better.
Almost as if she read my thoughts,
She looks up from her novel and in my direction as I hastily avert my gaze into the book in front of me.
After an hour or two,
Which flew by in what felt like were seconds,
She gets up,
Leaving the library,
This is my chance.
I’m determined to talk to her now.
As she exits the library,
And I run to catch up to her,
I lose her in the bustling crowd,
She could be anywhere.
I frantically run around the whole street trying to catch a glimpse of her, but it was in vain.
Dejected,
I head back home,
Maybe I’ll run into her some other time.
The next day,
At about the same time,
I go back to the same library,
Wishing upon my lucky stars,
Praying for just one more chance to see her again,
And luckily enough,
I catch her on the same table again.
She’s just as into the book as she was yesterday,
And I’m still as nervous as I was yesterday.
I sigh in frustration as the only thing I can do is sit and watch her from afar,
Not knowing how to approach her.
Days go by,
It’s still the same,
A visit to the library became my daily ritual just to see her.
Sometimes we exchange glances and we smile at each other,
Her, brightly,
And me, as awkwardly as I first saw her on the street.
One evening,
In the middle of reading her novel,
I suddenly notice she pulls something out of her pocket,
Is that a pencil?
She jots something down,
Scribbling over something and putting it back into her pocket.
When it was time for her to leave,
As usual,
She walked by from just beside me,
Trying to get to the main door.
Something dropped out of her pocket,
A folded up napkin.
She was nowhere in sight by the time I pulled myself together and tried to tell her.
Thinking I’d return it to her tomorrow,
I pick up the napkin,
Curiosity getting the better of me,
I unfold it.
And there,
In a most beautiful writing,
With a bright shade of red,
She had used her lipstick to write down, along with her name,
Her number.
- Writer
