The Gypsy

Peeking at her between the rows of hardbound books, Warren Hennessey can’t take his eyes off the girl. He doesn’t worry. He has a reason to be there: reshelving returns, the part-time gig that pays his tuition.

He randomly replaces a book where he stands. It will never be found again, lost between two faded volumes that haven’t seen natural light since their pages were saplings. He can’t help himself. Looking at her is like gazing at the sun during an eclipse, risky but irresistible.

Might she spot him ogling her—she exudes sensual attractiveness —while reeks of spectacled nerdiness? What excuse should he give if she notices him drooling among the tomes?

“The books I need are always checked out.” Or, “Sorry for the noise. Just shelving books.” He might as well say, “Ignore me; I’m no one.”

He flushes at the prospect of being discovered, exposed—his eyes leering, his lips slobbering. What if she has cool-chick vision that scans for dufusses? She’d say, “He’s the one, Officer. I recognize him by the drool on the front of his shirt. Twisted pervert.”

Seated at a large study table surrounded by shelves of dog-eared references, the girl is an exquisite flower, resplendently out of place among moldering texts about primitive cultures and early Chinese agriculture.

Mindless that his cart blocks all access to the knotty history of Asian weaving, he watches her hands as she plucks items from her purse. Her fingers, slim acrobatic appendages with blushing nails, dance in and out, snaring selected items and dropping them amid a cluster of photocopies. He savors how she flips her papers, every movement a ballet. Choreographed.

He lets his imagination run, picturing how he might approach her, his body making an astral leap from what could be to what is. Resplendent and poised, he stands in front of her. She loves how his wavy, streaked hair hangs low on his neck, while his beard makes him look brooding and artistic. She admires the casual paint splotches on his shirt, each splat dark indigo like his eyes. He makes his move. “Dance major?”

“Yes. I study. You?” Her accent is Russian, exotic.

 He replies casually, “Just finished my MFA, Universitá di Roma,” as Italy’s influence sprinkles his speech with European sophistication. “By the way, I have some of my work in a local gallery; I’ll show it to you.” His fantasy expands, and he sees the two of them turning into the gallery’s flagstone drive in a red Alfa Romeo Spider. The car’s paint is a ocean deep, and the girl’s hair flows behind her in the wind.

But there is no driveway. It evaporates as she bends to retrieve a dropped paper clip from the library’s carpeted floor, her form perfect. He commands the fantasy to continue and moves next to her, complimenting her gracefulness. 

 “Bolshoi,” she responds, pleased. Her accent is stronger, arrogant. “Prima ballerina, three years. You are fan?

“Yes, twice. Moscow and New york.” His accent shifts. He becomes her countryman. His voice tells her he reads everything from Pushkin to Pravda. “Also, I am not an average Russian driving a Spetsteh military ATV. I tour the Mercedes factory every year to pick up the newest model, this year the AMG GT Coupe. Zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds.”

Unimpressed, she forces him to the curb. “Old men drive Mercedes,” she says. “Like Cadillac in Amerika.”

The fantasy stops, dumping him back into his would-be, could-be life. She wouldn’t not say that, he thinks. Too beautiful, too kind. He imagines her dancing around a campfire, eyes ablaze, sensuous, Gypsy. His heart wants to walk up to her, caress her hair, and whisper his love. With each graceful plunge into her purse, a gold charm bracelet slides half the length of her forearm, and for a moment, he envisions that arm intertwined with his.

Suddenly her fingertips became excavating claws; they dump her possessions back into the purse in two unceremonious loads. The ballet had ended. She yanks the purse’s straps to her shoulder, grabs her papers and heads to the door.

            Still captured by the dream, his eyes follow, relishing the way she moves. In seconds, she passes through the library’s electronic sensors and is gone. No scent of her remains, only the surrounding odor of old books and toner from a nearby copy-machine.

            Oblivious of his coworkers or any library patrons, he shoves his book cart aside and strides toward the door. He rams a library table. His leg jolts a stack of books to the floor. He doesn’t notice. From behind a checkout counter, his supervisor says, “Warren, what’s wrong?” Her face is bewildered. He mumbles something incomprehensible – it sounds foreign –and he crashes through the exit and out of sight. His boss shrugs. “Must have left his lights on,” she says, shaking her head as she hands a pile of books to a borrower. “These are due on the fourth. Next in line.”

            Outside, Warren dashes down the steps. He wants to remember how she moves as she walks toward her car. But he can’t see her. He looks across the parking lot and out to the street. Cars pass. She’s not in any of them. On the sidewalk, a woman with a book bag gives ground as Warren rushes past. Another mumbled excuse—by now he’s lost his accent—and he skitters around the corner of the building.

            “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “There!” He’s found her. But seeing her sucks the breath out of his lungs, and his stomach hurts as if he has lost a winning Powerball ticket. He clutches at his head, his face twisting in a howl of sorrow and heartache.

The girl sees him and laughs. “Disappointed?” Her question baits him derisively. “Too bad.” But she’s not sorry. She turns once more to the blonde girl who leans against the wall in front of her, and they kiss again, this time more passionately.

Warren gets it. He won’t be needing the Alfa Romeo or the Mercedes.

The End

© Richard Schram, 2018