I never thought that an antique book store would be a good place to meet women, but I took the job anyway. I would have preferred to be tutoring poor helpless freshman girls. However, beggars can't be choosers and my tuition bills have been catching up with my unemployed self. The best part about this job is that I don't need to know anything about the material. Half the books are not even written in English. So, I basically just need to know where the titles go. Besides, I work the night shift, and not many customers show up anyway. Mostly, I just sit on my chair behind the register, which are both older then some of the books, and take the shoppers' money if anyone actually shows up to buy a book. This all changed the second Rose walked into the store.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. As she glances around the shop, I can see that her face is the picture of perfection. She is a little pale, but her striking features make me forget all about her complexion. Her shoulder length hair seems to change color with every step she takes. The farther away she is, the more her hair appears a deep blood-red, but as she approaches, a gorgeous golden blonde waterfall materializes where the red hair was. Her eyes, as she glides towards me, look as if they are dilated. The pupils encompass much of her eyeballs, while thin circles of gold-colored iris surround them.
As she approaches, she asks, "Where are the books that date back to seventeenth century Europe?" She has a soft, lilting voice, but I can barely hear her over the pounding of my heart in my chest. I can hardly manage to lift my arm to point to the back corner and respond, "They're over there."
She laughs and gives her thanks, and for some reason I feel warm and strong at the mere sound of her laugh. She moves over to where I directed her, and begins to look over the books. After looking over the entire section, she leaves without a word.
The next night, she returns. I am lightly dozing in my chair when I am suddenly very awake; as if someone has dumped cold water over my face. However, I feel very warm; and as I turn towards the door, I see her again. This time she moves straight to the back corner and again looks over the whole selection. However, this night, she picks out a book and comes up to my counter. I nearly have a heart attack just watching her advance; every move she makes seems to flow together seamlessly. By the time she makes her way to my register I can hear my heart pounding in my ears again, and she smiles as if she can hear it too.
I take her book and examine the title: DE PESTE VENETA ANNO M DC XXX, by Michael Angelus Rota. "What is this, French?" I ask.
"Close, Italian. This book is an account on the Venetian Plague of 1630. Can't you read your own books?"
"They aren't my books, I just work here."
"Maybe you should try to read them sometime, they can be quite interesting."
"So you are interested in plagues, I thought that the book might be for someone else."
With a smile that nearly breaks my heart, she utters, "That's sweet. No, I'm not seeing anyone, the book is for me."
"That's not what I meant," I stammer. "I just thought that most young women did not read European history unless they were forced."
"I spent some time in Venice, and I was interested in reading some of the more interesting aspects of their history."
"You certainly are well traveled for such a young woman."
"Young?"
"Yes, young. You look like you can't be more than, what, twenty, twenty-one years old"
"Looks can be deceiving." As she takes her purchase, she remarks, "Thank you, for your help and scintillating conversation."
She pays in cash, which is unusual enough considering the book costs five hundred dollars, but it also means that I do not have a chance to look at a credit card for a name. So, as she walks out the door, I finally find the nerve to inquire to what I had wanted to since the first time I saw her. "Do you mind if I ask you your name?"
"Why?" she queries.
"I was wondering what name could possibly do your beauty justice."
"How charming," she answers with a smile. "It's Rose," and she walks out of the door.
The next couple of nights pass without the return of the vision of beauty. Several times during the night I can feel someone watching me, but when I turn to look out the front pane of the shop, the street is deserted. On Friday night, as I lock up, I suddenly feel very alert; like the last time Rose came to the shop. I turn to see nothing but her enchanting eyes. Her nose almost touching mine, I can't take my eyes from hers.
"Did you come for a book? I'm just closing up."
"I know Sani. I thought that you might like to take a walk with me through the park."
The rest of the world seems to slip away as my insides explode with joy. However, I manage to restrain myself to merely reply, "Sounds great." I take her arm and as we walk toward the park I think of something. "Are you psychic or do I just look like a Sani"
"No one looks like a Sani. You still have your name tag on. Where did you get that name anyway?"
"My grandfather named me. It is a Native American name meaning Old One."
"That's nice. I don't remember my grandfather very much."
"Did he die when you were young?"
"Something like that."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
