Blank Stationary

We met in a stationary shop. He was toying with an exceptionally fine pen. I thought he had nice hands. They were strong, yet oddly delicate. I could see his thoughts twirling with the pen. Behind his absent minded motion, were half shaped words still spinning. I watched him for awhile, from behind a shelf. I flipped through a composition book; but my eyes were firmly elsewhere, hovering somewhere behind his ear. And I realized, rather objectively, that I was hopelessly in love. It was strange to be in love with someone I had only just laid eyes on. But it was undeniable, I was all tangled up in his twirling. 

I learned later he was writer. Not an author yet, but a writer. His book was half formed. Those I had thw courage to ask doubted it would take a definite shape. He was the source of a lot of gossip: good looking, quiet, a writer. Sometimes, walking down the street, I would catch a glimpse of his ear then hastily direct my attention to somewhere behind it. I liked to think that he was lonely, but I doubt that was the truth; I saw him with friends often enough. 

I never went back into that stationary shop. Occasionally, I wonder what would have happened if I had. Would he have been there? Would we have talked about pens and composition books?  Would I have had the courage to stare at his ear for an extended period of time? Or just sit and watch his hands as they danced?  

 

Yellow Sweater

WA

YWP Alumni Advisor

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