Unattainable
by E. A. Smith

I first saw her in the romance section, knelt down to scan the titles on the bottom shelf, her back to me as I rounded the corner. A sky-blue tunic, belted at the waist, draping a lithe figure, and smooth auburn hair flowing past her shoulders – all I could see, but enough to make me duck back into the sci-fi aisle behind her, fearful of being caught staring. I hadn’t even seen her face, but I could picture it; not precisely, but with a vague impression of beauty that made me eager to see more, even as I feared the reality could not match up with my hazy imaginings.

I wandered through the surrounding aisles, hidden behind stacks of books, in a pattern which I hoped would be seen as random, even as I hoped my path would bring me into hers. As I walked, I told myself the absurdity of my behavior. What was the use of trying to get a better look? Even if we ran directly into each other, I knew I would not say anything beyond a quick apology, murmured with averted eyes to avoid the intimacy of contact. She read romance novels. What could I possibly say to a person with such lamentable tastes in literature? Given the opportunity, I would just stare and stammer, unsure of how to start, how to seem any more than just one creepy guy in a bookstore. The rows of books blended into streams of color, unnoticed by my gaze as I strolled by, purposefully casual.

I turned another corner, my path having brought me to the opposite end of the aisle in which I had first seen her, and there she was. Walking towards me, her face in three-quarters profile. I captured her face in my mind. Fair skin with just the hint of freckles, winsome features, and a slight curl to the lips that suggested a smile that could melt any man. She was more, not less, than my imagination had conceived, a near-perfect vision of Celtic beauty. Much more than a man like me could handle, or deserve. Instinctively, I walked on by, hiding my regard, continuing on the circuit I had been following before I caught a glimpse of her. To see more, to experience her, I would have to linger for no other reason than to drink her in from a few steps away, and I would not allow myself to take that final step.

But I could not get away. Everywhere I walked, there was the possibility of seeing her again, the chance of running into her, standing side by side looking at the new hardcovers, or touching hands as we both grabbed for the same magazine. Every time I picked up a book to flip through its pages, I judged it on what she might think if she passed by. Would she smile in approval, or sniff in disdain, or recoil in disgust? My mind constructed scenarios, all the different ways I would love to meet a girl in a bookstore. A “meet cute”, just like in cheesy Hollywood romantic comedies. I would be flipping through a book by Neil Gaiman or Nick Hornby, and she would happen by, and ask me what I thought of it. Maybe she would be a fellow fan, and we could share our respective favorite works, or maybe she would be curious about him, and I could display my encyclopedic knowledge as I gave my recommendations. Or we would both be sitting at the store cafe, tables adjacent, and her favorite song would come over the speakers, and she would lean over and tell me how great this obscure but talented artist was, a spontaneous expression of enthusiasm that would lead to involved discussion on music and life. The presence of these possibilities haunted every corner I turned, every book I picked up, investing every little action with a pregnant thrill, a significance far beyond the mundane motions of browsing in a bookstore. I was no longer here for myself, but for her.

But I never saw her again. I circled the building twice, every new aisle stirring my heart into motion as it came into view, only to instill a pang of disappointment when she failed to be an inhabitant. My actions felt hollow now. Who knows how long ago she had left? How long had I been chasing after a shadow? How long had I been playing the fool? I found that I didn’t care. Would I have preferred to have never seen her at all?

As I walked out the door, I wondered if infatuation was all that separate from obsession after all.