THE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN BOOKSTORES
Eva
She’d chosen a window seat, overlooking the sidewalk, where she could see me walking with an umbrella before I entered the cafe.
She wore a plaid grey collar, a man’s shirt, rising above a dark purple or burgundy vest. Or green. I’m colour-blind.
She had been wearing something else at noon when she called out to me at the book store. What she was wearing then, I couldn’t recall.
I sat, facing her. Cool floor-to-ceiling glass next to us looked out over wet empty sidewalks. Rush hour was over. I lay my wet umbrella on the floor.
“Hi,” I said. Dark eyes. Sincere face. Twenty-two? 25? Likely college student. Single, I was sure. Her shirt might be an ex-boyfriend’s. If so, she was sentimental. No ring. Soft pink hands.
“Hi,” she said back.
“So you know me.” My question didn’t sound like one.
“We’ve met before.” Assured voice.
“We have?”
I thought her hair was black. It was dark brown. Matched her eyes. She didn’t look crazy. I was surprised I felt relieved by this. She looked pleadingly sincere. I knew this meeting was important to her. With that much eagerness, she could only be disappointed. I wanted a coffee.
I looked up at the counter to see if you had to order there, or if there were waitresses. It looked like there was a waitress. Blonde. Abnormally large breasts. Tanned. Athletic. Strong legs.
“Briefly,” she said. “We met briefly.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“In Boston.”
Boston?
“Okay.”
“A writer’s conference. You were in the hall looking for a place that sold coffee.”
I do during every conference break.
“I showed you a cart that sold expresso. You said it was the first expresso you ever had.”
“Ohhhh.” Okay. I remembered.
“I’m Eva.”
I thought she’d said Ava at the bookstore.
“I have a manuscript I want you to see. You said you’d take a look at it.”
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a long way from Boston.”
“It is. Do you live here?”
“No. I’m here for three days.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With friends.” A lie. I didn’t know a soul here. I didn’t want to give the name of my hotel.
She reached into a wide shopping black shopping bag with a large art logo on the side of it. She fished out a thick brown envelope.
“I had it printed for you. You said you liked paper.”
“You printed the whole thing?”
“Yes. My number and email is on the top of every page.”
“Have you shown this to anyone else?”
“Not anyone in the business.”
“May I?”
“Please.”
I pulled, with some difficulty, the white printed pages out of the very full envelope. The front page held the title and her name.
A Million Men.
Eva Twinn
“Interesting title.”
She shrugged.
The blonde waitress appeared at our table.
“Coffee,” I said simply.
“Anything to eat?”
“Maybe a scone.”
“Cheese, raisin or plain?”
“Cheese.” I looked up at Eva.
“Rasin,” said Eva without looking at the waitress.
Eva was looking away, out at the wet sidewalk. Streetlights, newly on, reflected in fresh puddles. Puddle graffiti. Faint neon squiggles. It was evening already. Late. I should have suggested dinner. I’d have to go back to the hotel soon.
I looked down and turned the first page.
Eva waited.
