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?