The Woman Who Walked Into the Bookstore.

He could not stop staring. That had to be her. She had to be the one.

In one split second the wholeness of their lives together flashed through his head, around his ears, down his spine and amidst the small spaces between his eyes and brain. He saw their wedding night and the fervent neon intensity that is produced. In his head he could see his love for her being so grand and potent that he would want to crawl inside her skin and rest there forever. He could see her coming home from work and reading to him as he fell asleep and then stroking his hair. Then he would wake in the middle of the night and watch the small piece of skin that rests in the middle of her collarbone and at the base of her throat rise and sink as she took each sleeping breathe. He would do this until the sun rose or until she awoke. Then he would pretend to be asleep so that she would kiss him awake.

Their love would be deep like a sea filled canyon. Together they would try to enjoy the company of other couples but during dinners and gatherings they would just sit and look at each other in boredom knowing that what they had was an impossibility for all of their friends. Then, when they would get home they would rip their clothes off and make love on the living room floor. Then, the next morning, they would go shopping for new clothes looking for shirts with weak buttons and skirts made of thin cloth.

During family holidays, after everyone had eaten or once all of the presents were opened, they would sneak out to the car and be with one another. The goal would be to fog up the glass so as to have that thin barrier of privacy. But they both knew that they would still grope and touch and paw whether it was there or not. Then, straightening his tie and her blouse, they would reenter the house with a surprise and exclaim that they had gone to the store for this one bottle of below par wine.

Every Sunday morning she would cook him breakfast as he dug around in the garden and picked fresh basil for her. Then, once the dishes had been piled high on the counter and left for the flies, he would drive her to the field with the big tree near the rock fence. Once there, he would read her Whitman and Frost and would caress her stomach with a piece of grass. She would look at him and stare into his eyes as if every answer to every question about anything was there, hidden within them.

And this would be the wholeness of who they were. These things and these actions and this love would be what made them one. And it was these things that…

Then she purchased her old cookbook, never once noticing him, and walked out of the store. He stared at her getting into her car and driving away. He took a sip of his coffee.