Some people wear their jeans dangerously low on their hips; you wear your glasses dangerously low on your nose. And some people find the cut of hipbones sexy–but I see them and raise them the cut of your nose.
I know you don’t think you’re attractive, but I want you to know that I think you’re attractive. You’re always the one I go to when I need help, which is, well, not as often as you think I need. I just want to see you smile and laugh.
We share the same taste in books and music, I know. I know because your eyes always widen behind those glasses of yours, widen in surprise because you didn’t know I liked Sorenson and Neruda and cummings.
I try to linger at the desk, even though I know there are self checkouts. I’m trying to work up the courage to ask you out. We can go to that combination bookstore-coffeeshoppe that I know you’d like. We could talk about sweaters and the latest Kimbra album.
You duck your head shyly when you’re embarrassed. I think it’s absolutely adorable.
You know my name, I realize. But I don’t know yours. You see mine all the time when I come to the desk to check out the latest finds of the week. You must associate me with Murakami and Allende by now. I’ve checked those out a million times.
The latest book I’ve checked out is a new one. One that I haven’t read before. Sometimes, and I know you know judging by the amused twinkle in your eye when I come to you to check out, I like to read those trashy tween novels about first loves and high school and fumbling attraction.
I like to think that I’m giving you hints about what I’d like to do, but I think you know this habit of checking out Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele and David Levithan as simply a dirty, secret pleasure. A secret that you and I share.
This latest book is by Chbosky. I know I’m a little behind on the reading curve with this one, but I’ve finally gotten the courage to check it out. You smile sweetly and knowingly at my choice.
Later, when I’m at home and sorting out the books I’d checked out, I noticed an extra book in the bag. It doesn’t belong to the library, though. But I know who it belongs to.
Inside the cover is an old library receipt.
You beat me to the punch.