Maybe he was just absentmindedly staring in my direction.
Maybe I looked like somebody he knew from Sunday school when he was ten.
Maybe this was his idea of flirtation, you know, smoldering like one of those television network vampires. (They do that.)
I'd nearly convinced myself of one of these scenarios--the Sunday school one--when I saw the corners of his lips curl slightly upward.
At long last, he whispered, "So, you write for Midwest Fiction Forum, eh?" It was presented as a question, but I could tell from the undisguised sarcasm that he already knew the answer.
Oh, shit, shit, shit!
"Uh, w-well," I stuttered, "I've had a c-couple, um--why?"
He didn't reply. He got up from his chair two seats away and moved right next to me as I shot glances around the room in panic. I put the kiddie costume books on the floor and gripped my pen, dagger style, just in case.
Then he leaned in toward me. "I remember you," he whispered. My eyes widened while his crinkled at the corners. "You were the one here that day, weren't you? You lifted our conversation. Verbatim."
Oh, no. A psycho guy ... who reads. Short story and poetry journals, no less. Just my luck.
Then I thought, hey, if only I could escape the bookstore unscathed, this would make a wild story. Maybe even a novel. Consider the fun premise, the natural, built-in conflict. It had so much potential, but first I needed to slip away from the tall, hunky man with the dangerous glint in his very blue eyes.
"Um, look," I began, using my most placating tone. "It's just fiction, you know? I didn't mean to offend you or, or, anyone--but, it's--well, people are always asking writers where we get our ideas, and you can tell them it's in the 'random stuff' we encounter in real life but, a lot of times, no one believes us. You two were in a public location, talking kind of loud, and, and ... I mean, the things you both were saying made an interesting place for a story to start. So--" I ran fresh out of babbling steam right about then, but I forced myself to meet his gaze and hold my ground.
He snickered and sat back in his chair. I loosened my grip on the pen--a little.
"I should've known you'd be some writer. You had that shrewd, information-gathering look about you." He raised his eyebrows at me, and his gaze raked me over very deliberately before returning to my face. I felt myself turn pink.
"I must have reread the first conversation, especially your descriptions of us, and that sitcom-like elbow-bumping incident about fifteen times before I could believe it." He shook his head. "And you were hardly objective in your narrative. But, I guess," he said, wrinkling his nose, "it was a pretty bizarre night."
"Why?" I asked, careful to show both respect and interest. I needed more information for the psycho-bookworm story.
"Because my girlfriend and I broke up about ten minutes after you left."
"What? Really? The blonde?" Excellent. Crisis and several plot points already in place. Now I just needed more character details.
"Yeah. The blonde. Jessica, as you know her," he said, mocking me. "Her name's Kira, by the way, and she's the lawyer."
"Oops!" I covered my mouth with my palm, but I couldn't completely block out my surprise. "Well, so what happened?"
He inhaled and looked at me strangely. "Let's see--uh, you, actually--among other things. She was mad because I'd been talking to you, plus there were about three thousand major and minor infractions I'd committed that day ... and that month. She had sort of a jealous streak." He exhaled but continued looking at me strangely. "Long story."
Okay, I may have failed to guess Kira's name or real profession, but I'd totally nailed the jealous insecurity bit. I kept watching the guy standing in front of me, though, and was surprised to see the strange expression on his face morph into sadness, followed by hurt. Could he be missing Cherry, the fingernail-polish chick?
"Oh, I'm sorry," I began, figuring I could at least offer my condolences on the relationship's demise. "Are you all right? I have time, if you need to talk. I mean--I don't know what to say, but--"
"Don't say anything. Don't imagine anything. And, for mercy's sake, don't write anything." His acerbic tone punctuated every syllable like a stylus jabbing at something. He pointed at me for further emphasis, and his face took on the menacing cast of a disgruntled literary critic. "I'm fine."
He didn't look fine, but I merely squinted at him. After forbidding me to do the only three things I felt remotely qualified for and/or capable of, I was left with few options.
Well, I also thought really hard. His problems with Cherry/Jessica/Kira weren't my fault, I reasoned. He needed to learn to make better relationship choices. He should be more like my character Neil.
Additionally, I wondered if crawling into a parallel literary reality of my own construction would disrupt the space-time continuum in both the real world and in the virtual one. I promised myself I'd check out Einstein's books on the first floor of the store later.
Meanwhile, the man in front of me tapped his chin with a curved index finger and pursed his lips, as if trying to hold back a cutting retort.
After a time he sighed and said, "I guess Kira was more of a snobby Caroline Bingley than a witty Elizabeth Bennet anyway."
I was a little awed by this statement. He spoke of Jane Austen's characters knowingly, as if he'd read Pride and Prejudice and understood all about faulty first impressions. Who was this guy?