Haf stands clutching the copy ofCarolin her hands and waits, but she doesn’t come back. She’s just... gone.
Haf missed her chance.
‘Are you all right?’ The bookseller appears at her side, hands deep in his cardigan pockets.
‘I am absolutely not,’ Haf whispers, watching the door.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh! No I am fine, generally, ha ha,’ she says too loudly. ‘Um, can I buy this?’
He gives her a knowing, sympathetic look over the top of his glasses as he takes the copy ofCarolthat Haf has slightly warped with her tight grip. She follows him wordlessly to the counter, dragging the bag behind her.
‘It’s not often I get to see a meet-cute in here.’
Haf snaps out of her daze, a little embarrassed that her failure had a witness. ‘I’d have thought train stations would be rife with it?’
‘Less common than you’d think. Usually just business people looking for something to read on the train, or parentswith gaggles of children. Making eyes over the queer books? Couldn’t be more perfect.’ He chuckles to himself before sighing contentedly. ‘That’s the kind of meet-cute you dream of, the kind of queer stories we deserve.’
Haf taps the payment through with her iPhone. ‘Don’t get too excited. I didn’t get her number. Or even her name.’
His mouth hangs open. ‘You’re not serious? What about her Instagram? Twitter? TikTok? Anything?’
Haf shakes her head.
He tuts at her and sighs. ‘Dear me.’
‘I was . . . a mess,’ she groans.
‘I can’t believe it. She looked like she was about to eat you up,’ he says, typing something into the till. ‘Maybe she’ll come back?’
They both glance back to the door in hopeful unison, but she doesn’t reappear.
Sighing, he passes her the book wrapped up in a paper bag, a complimentary bookmark sticking out from the pages.
‘We’ve all been there. I took ten per cent off by the way.’
‘Oh, I’m not a student.’
‘I know, but you gave me five minutes of entertainment and an anecdote for forever.’
‘Happy to help. You can call it “The Tale of the Useless Bisexual”.’
She flips open the top of the rucksack, and gently places her book on top of the Betty’s box, which appears to be miraculously undamaged. Secured, she carefully slings it back over her shoulders.
‘Do you want to leave your number? In case she comes back?’ he asks, eyes wide and chin resting in his hands.
‘You think I should?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. I mean, it’s probably breaking some kind of data protection law, but I’ll do it for love.’
Haf worries at her bottom lip. She could, but what if they didn’t have anything in common? What if she didn’t even come back for the number? Her number could live on the back of a receipt in this bookseller’s pocket, abandoned and unlusted after.
‘Or,’ he says slowly, raising his eyebrows, ‘do you have a pair of gloves? You could leave a glove.’
‘Why would I leave a glove?’ she asks.
‘When you read the book, you’ll get it.’
