In A Perfect World

This was from September 2008. A piece of fiction written in the style of Mr. Andy


We'll meet through chance. Maybe we'll both be at a bookstore, not a big corporate bookstore that is well lit and has soft music, but a family owned bookstore that has almost as much dust as it does books. I'll notice you over in the mystery section and be mortified that a cute guy saw me in the biography section, totally forgetting that anyone in a bookstore is likely to be as geeky as me and not care that I have the biography of Locke in my hands. Hell, you might even be more impressed by it. Our eyes will meet again as you sit down in a chair near mine and I'll wonder if you sat there because you hoped to start a conversation or because it was the only chair available. I consider waiting to see if you'll start a conversation, then remember that I'm not the type of girl who waits and sees. I'll grin lazily at you and say 'hello stranger'.

You'll be startled but flash a quick smile that tells me you did pick the seat on purpose. We'll start a conversation about our books and realize we could spend hours talking about the written word. And realize that we have. My stomach will protest, loudly, and we'll both laugh. You'll ask me to dinner and I'll counter the offer by suggesting appetizers and drinks instead. And then you'll say that line that is heard so often in black and white movies but rarely in real life, "let's get out of here".

We'll go to your favorite restuarant and the banter and real conversation will flow just as easily as a Gilmore Girl's episode. I'll confess my love for Joseph Gordon Lovett and you'll say 'I love Brick!' and that will turn my little crush on you into something more. When you tell me you own a mastiff and you named him Cuchulainn I will swoon, not only because you have a great big dog, but you named from irish mythology. Last call will send us reluctanctly outside to the real world and to our cars. When you ask if you can see me again I'll ask if you've ever read Dostoevsky. You'll know what short story I'm talking about without me even mentioning the title. You'll nod once. And then as I'm walking away, almost to my car, you will call my name. When I turn I'll find that you have chased me down and you're slightly out of breathe, and that you are awfully cute when your out of breathe. You'll ask me to write my number and put it in any book at the bookstore that we met in, and if you find it then screw the russians.

The next day I am at the cozy little bookstore, with a smile that refuses to leave my face. I have a scrap of paper with ten digits on it in my hand. I slip that paper into a book that means something to both of us, then look around at the little bookstore almost sadly. I love that little bookstore, but I won't be coming back. Dostoevsky had the right way of impromtu meetings with strangers. They are always perfect and that perfection should not be messed with by having a second meeting.

Unless, of course, you happen to open The Tain Bo Cualinge and see my phone number. In which case, screw the russians.