This one took a while to write;

     I was at the bookstore, my own little slice of air-conditioned heaven-on-Earth, perusing through the shelves upon shelves of books. I hopped from section to section, genre to genre and topic to topic of books as whimsy saw fit. I must’ve spent hours there. My nose was buried in one particular novel, when a voice behind me

demanded, “Excuse me sir”, with sarcastic emphasis on sir, “This isn’t a library. If you would like to read that, you will have to buy it.”I understood what the store owner meant behind those words. I was raggedly dressed, in torn jeans and a faded t-shirt. In her syllables she inserted a secret challenge for me to rip open my rather thin wallet and pay for that novel right then and there. So as I met her eyes, and her challenge, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I opened it. It was empty, and neither she nor I were surprised. In fact, we stared at it for some time, as if expecting moths to come flying out at any second. She sneered smugly, “Shall I show you to the door, sir?”

      I made my way to the exit, the old store owner practically breathing down my neck every step of the way as I took my ‘walk of shame’ out of my one sanctuary. I half expected the detectors at the sides of the doors to go off, another one of her cruel tricks, but I instead walked head-first into a wall. Or, at least I thought it was a wall. Surprise, surprise; it wasn’t. I actually walked into a girl. I’ve seen her around the store, always huddled in the corner, selecting which book would last her that particular week. She was pretty, I guess. She had straight-wavy brunette hair that was slung casually over one shoulder, and an olive complexion that looked almost tan. But her eyes were her most breathtaking feature. They were quiet, brown orbs, but filled with an energy and exuberance that painted the image of a furnace of excitement. She managed to stammer out an incoherent,“I’m sorry” and bent down to gather the books that I had knocked out of her arms. I bent down to help her, and noticed one of the books she was carrying, “Violets are Blue, by James Patterson”, I remarked somewhat subconsciously.

           She unexpectedly replied, a sound I mistook for a chorus of angels, “Yeah, have you read it?”

   “Yes”, I said, almost by reflex, “It’s a fulfilling read”. I know what you’re thinking: those aren’t words that you would hear coming from a grungy, underprivileged 17-year old, but I spent most of my free time in that store, and know every book on every shelf there. People have even mistaken me for an employee. But she seemed to not notice my out-of-place appearance as she said “Thanks, I’ve been wondering if it would be a worthwhile buy”. Then she flashed me a smile and made her way to the counter. I watched her as she walked away, hypnotized by the gentle swaying of her hips.

      A couple of days later, I heard that the shrill store owner was out and that her daughter was keeping an eye on the bookstore. I actually jumped for joy. Literally. I decided to skip school that day, to make full use of the shrill one’s absence. Then I saw her, the ‘Violets are Blue’ girl. She must’ve noticed my staring at her, because she curtly put down the book she was browsing, looked in my direction and smiling, said, “Hi”

“Hi  yourself. Wait, aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?” I queried.

She giggled, “Aren’t you?”. Touche’.

“Yeah well, the old lady’s not in, so I decided to take my time here for once. What’s your excuse?” I said, rather defensively.

 “I’m 18”, she replied tartly.

 “Oh”.  I hastily changed the topic when my cheeks started to feel hot and asked her what book she was buying this time, and she showed me. We spent the rest of the day in much the same way, talking about different books and discussing different authors and their writing styles. I found it rather pleasant. To be honest, I’ve never been into girls before, but I felt different about this one. This one. That thought came to me just as I was about to leave.

I asked her; “Wait! What’s your name?”

 “Chloe”. I hurried home that day with a newfound spring in my step.

    I stopped by the store a few more times in the coming weeks, and was a little more than glad to see Chloe there. Every time I visited, I would first peer through the threshold, wishing to catch a glimpse of a head of straight-wavy hair, and I left if I didn’t. I came to realize that I seemed to be living for our secret moments in the bookstore. I popped in again one day, hoping to see dear Chloe there, and there she was, in the literature section. I approached and greeted her and we began talking again. We started off as usual, debating about which author we thought was the best and what sort of books we usually read. Then I steeled myself, and asked her, “Umm, Chloe?”

    “Hmm?”she replied nonchalantly, her attention mainly focused on the book of rhymes  she had in her hands. “Would it be okay, if I, you know, got your number? You know, for references.” It sounded weak, but I was trying to project the image of confidence, which was probably decimated in the face of my reddening cheeks. She looked up at me, arched an eyebrow, and started blushing too. By then my brain was sending electric shocks of distress down my nervous highway, telling me to run away and curl up in a dark hole somewhere. I ignored the alarms, and steeled my resolve to face her verdict. “Sure”, she said, and I was neck deep in euphoria. So she wrote it down, and handed it to me. “Then can I have your number?” My cheeks turned crimson again as I replied, “See, thing is, I don’t actually have my own phone, so”, and I trailed off from there. “It’s ok, I’ll just wait for you to call me, then,” She said with a heart melting smile.

    And so that night, I did. I woke up bleary eyed and groggy the next morning, and remained so throughout the day. But it was okay, because I had the memory of last night’s conversation playing on in my head on an eternal loop.

    We went about this arrangement for some time, meeting in the bookstore when we could and meeting over the phone when we couldn’t. We talked for what seemed like days at a time, and though I thought that we would run out of things to tell each other, we soon were living in each other’s pockets. We spent so much time with each other during the 2 years we carried out this engagement, that hey presto, before we knew it, we had transcended friendship.

“Ira?” she asked sweetly one day in the bookstore café. We were reading, as the rain outside came down in a shower of steel.

“Yes?” I replied

“Would you, like to come over some time?” she asked me, but there was an anxious, almost scared edge coating her syllables. I didn’t know why she was so jumpy, but I shrugged and dismissed it as a fit of nervousness on her part.

“Sure, certainly,” but I wasn’t certain. A nagging feeling in my head was telling me that Chloe’s nervous tone could only spell disaster. I was young and stupid, and thought nothing more of it. So we continued reading. We kept reading. And reading. Reading.

 I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Chloe, what’s the matter?” I asked, trying to channel genuine concern into my words.

“Nothing,” she lied automatically. She was a terrible liar and I could tell by the way her eyes darted back and forth; her body’s immediate impulse to her not telling the truth, that she wasn’t being honest.

“Chloe…” I said rather impatiently.

“Alright, fine!” she cried out, “It’s no big deal but, my parents are trying to get me to meet this guy. But I have, and I’m not really crazy about him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. “Nothing’s wrong with him, per say, but he’s well, boring. And we have nothing in common. The only reason my parents are so keen on him is because he has a high paying job. They mean well, but they don’t get it that I want to choose who I want to spend my life with,” she explained.

“I see, and you want me to come over to prove to your parents that you’re not interested in this guy. It’s weird, but I’ll do it,” I conceded. Chloe relaxed visibly afterwards.

          So it was decided, and I went over to her place that very weekend. I got there, and stood dumbfounded as I stared at her house. It was probably bigger than any of the other mansions on that street and I bet a hundred of my houses could’ve fit inside. I noticed a flashy red car nearby, and a guy walking towards it. He looked loaded, and the impression came not just by his car, but also by his well-groomed long-ish sandy hair and pseudo-hipster-cum-5^th avenue store clothes.

 I think I know who you are. I shrugged the thoughts out of my head, and proceeded to ring the doorbell. Chloe greeted me, “Hi”. She looked so different in her casual top and jeans, compared to the blouse she always wore to the bookstore. I however, looked like an idiot. I was in my best shirt and slacks, which isn’t really saying much. They were worn and slightly discolored, being hand-me-downs for three straight generations. Again, Chloe didn’t seem to mind.

      “Come in,” she said tentatively. And so I did, and sitting on soft, squishy armchairs in the living room were her parents. Her father was sitting with his back straight, his eyes locked on to me in judgmental severity. Her mother was no less unsettling, stone faced and adamant. Their faces contorted into visages of disgust when they first saw me; hate at first sight. Its as if these two people were born specifically to intimidate me. I introduced myself, and they accepted my handshakes half-heartedly. If smiling translated to being friendly and civil, these two were the least welcoming people on Earth.

       We had dinner after a brief and incredibly awkward conversation. I could feel them giving me the cold shoulder all through dinner, and I tried not to meet their eyes as we ate. Chloe too was unusually quiet, as if her parents’ very presence put a thick dampening fog over her inner energy. It was the longest three hours of my life. Every time I tried to spark up a conversation, the two impassive giants doused it in proverbial ice water. To my relief, I left later that night. As I walked out of the house’s compound, the sounds of a heated argument rose up in the air, and incessant pangs of guilt told me that this one wasn’t a debate Chloe was going to win.

 “I screwed up, didn’t I?” I asked Chloe dismally the next day in the bookstore. She didn’t reply immediately, and it only served to fuel my anxiety.

Smiling weakly, she said, “No, it’s fine. It’s them. They barely gave you a chance”, though I could see that she had to put a lot of effort into that smile.

“Were they hard on you? I could hear you guys arguing after I left” I said, hoping I hadn’t stepped out of bounds.

Apparently, I hadn’t. She reassured me, in her best comforting voice given the circumstances, “I’ll live, Ira. Listen, I have to go, I need to get home. I’ll talk to you later.” Oh boy.

   

        Chloe had never been quite the same afterwards, more quiet and reserved. Her hair was more often than not unkempt, and most worrying, her eyes had lost the inner fire that had caught and tugged at my heart the first time I saw her. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it, but she futilely kept reassuring me that she was fine. I was getting really worried, and as my self-pity and worry started to bubble up to a sickening crescendo, I got the fateful call, from Chloe, which was odd since I usually called her.

“Ira, can you come to the bookstore?” I heard on the receiver early one morning. I hurriedly got dressed and made my way there.

       I entered, and there she stood, clad in the blouse I first met her in. She looked sad and distracted, as if contemplating a disappointing thought. She saw me, and smiled weakly, and I as weakly smiled back at her.

“Hi”

“Hi, Chloe. You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, we need to talk. It’s about m-” but I cut her off, as I saw a circle of gold wrapped around her finger, catch the reading light on one of the shelves, its diamond glittering mockingly at me with a 14-karat sneer.

“Chloe, what’s –“ she cut me off this time, by falling into my arms and sobbing quietly into my shoulder. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Chloe cry. I sat her down, and took my position beside her, lending her my shoulder to cry on. We sat like that for 15 minutes.

   Once she was sufficiently calmed down, I spoke. “Chloe, what happened? Are you really going through with this? I thought you said you didn’t want to be with him?” I interrogated her.

“But my parents did”

“So? It’s your choice, not theirs! You could confront them; tell them that you don’t want to be with…that guy.”

“His name is-“

“I don’t care what his name is!” I said, perhaps a little too harshly because Chloe’s words started degenerating into sobs again.

“Chloe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell” I quickly apologized.

“Ira, listen to me. They were going to send me away to God knows where, if they didn’t have their way. They said I had to think of my future, instead of spending time with some tramp from the slums!”

     I was in shock, not because what her parents thought of me; that came as no surprise, but at what Chloe’s parents would’ve done to her if she didn’t comply. They feared for her, and wanted only the best for their dear Chloe, and that’s what I wanted too, but the ends just didn’t justify the means. I was mad at them, I was mad at the sandy-haired guy, I was mad at myself and I was mad at the world, but somehow I wasn’t mad at Chloe. I glanced at her, and was reminded why.

“So, you’re really going to do this?” I asked. She nodded.

“Which means,” I continued.

“Which means that I most probably won’t be able to see you again. I’m sorry Ira.” She finished. “I’m going to miss you,” she said, sobbing again.

“I’ll miss you too,” I said, as we locked in a tight embrace. The embrace would laminate our memories in tears, preserving them like a fossil of an age long gone encased in amber. What the hell, I only live once. Such were my thoughts as I made my next move. I took her face in my hands, and cradled it for a while, before bringing it in closer so her lips could meet mine. We stayed in that position for a long while, tears streaming down both our cheeks, until I finally broke contact.

“Goodbye, Chloe,” I said.

“Goodbye Ira, I’ll never forget this paperback destiny we thought we had. It would’ve been a really good book.”

      And that was too much for me. I turned away, and I looked back to see Chloe’s face glistening with tear-streaks as much as mine. She smiled weakly, and mouthed I love you, which I returned in kind. I walked for the last time, out of that bookstore, and out of Chloe’s life.

      Five years later, I found myself sipping a cup of my ritual morning coffee in a different café, in a different bookstore. I was just about to clean off my cup when, THUD! Next thing I knew, a small kid was sitting on the ground, on the verge of tears, three feet away from me. Also, the rest of my coffee was spilt on my lap, which hurt. Wiping my drink off, I hurried over to the child, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as I calmed him down.

     “Sorry, Mister”, he said when he stopped crying, “Can you pass me my book there, it fell when I was knocked down”. I noticed it there, an old, battered copy of James Patterson’s ‘Violets are Blue’. I froze in time, as three years worth of memories flooded back in.

“Mister, are you okay?” he asked, seeing my momentary lapse. “Yeah, I’m fine. You have great taste, by the way”, I replied as I handed him the book.

“That’s my mom’s, she said it was special. But I don’t understand it much”, he explained. I smiled.

“Don’t worry, you will. It is, it’s a fulfill-. It’s a really good book.”