To The Guy At The Bookstore
At first it was the blur from your red checkered shirt that caught my eye. Then it was your voice that lassoed my ear in.
Not quite Barry White, but no where close to Justin Bieber. The melodic tone behind your very confident “Hello’ was mesmerizing. Hence, my breathless salutation.
I’m not normally Scarlett O’Hara. More like Roseanne Barr.
I had my head down skimming the illustrations donning the covers of bestsellers that were comprised of thrillers, autobiographies, and horror stories (a couple of books on Donald Trump). If I were paying attention to the people surrounding me, and not salivating at the books in front of me I would have been more prepared to seduce you. Or at least introduce myself.
I would have put on lip gloss on, and pushed my girls up a little. I maybe could have found a spare mint at the bottom of my Kate Spade bag. I would never hope to find a well conditioned ponytail holder in my bag...because I'm not that organized in real life. Hence, the constant frizzy mop on the top of my head. But, I am happy you were able to see me in that state of wildness. I would hate for you to expect to see my hair tamed.
After your voice enraptured me, it was your skin that almost closed the deal. I bet your ancestors ruled a far way kingdom in Africa. I also bet they invented the use of shea butter.
It was not your immaculate wardrobe, your beautiful flawless skin, or even the enticing tone behind your voice that fully charmed me.
It was the book in your hand.
The first book I ever read was “Green Eggs and Ham” by Dr. Seuss. The last book I read was “The Day We Met” by Rowan Coleman. I'm currently reading "The Roses of May" by Dot Hutchison. Between the first and last there have been thousands of novels, autobiographies, biographies, who-dun-its, and thrillers that I have gotten lost in.
I purposefully left out romance because I didn't want you to think I was a sap. I am.
I escaped a tumultuous childhood through reading. I will forever be indebted to J.K. Rowling, Lois Lowry, Mildred D. Taylor, and Sharon Draper for giving me stories to get lost in while escaping moments in my life that were not so picturesque. Their words took me to other towns with other people who couldn't hurt me. They wrote about bad-ass heroines. They wrote about difficult trials. They wrote about pure love.
Reading poured life into me.
I never really thought I could ever be with someone who had the same relationship with reading. To be fair it was never a requirement. I figured no man in my age bracket really enjoyed reading. Was that sexist? I would pay to see men protest in large groups with testicles on their hats.
I have always gone out with men who don't have a favorite book, author, or genre. And you know what? I'm freaking done with that.
You sir, have inspired me to look for :
Intellect rather than height (Yes, I'm one of those girls) (At least I admit it)
Intellect as well as humor.
Intellect in addition to sensuality.
I am now a self diagnosed Sapiosexual.
In the 80's and 90's it was popular to find people in the personal ad section in local newspapers. There was a trend of wanting to find a person that you bypassed in a throng of people, in a packed coffee shop, or a nice young man in a bookstore that you were too chickenshit to approach.
You could very well be married, picking up a book for your boyfriend, in high school (I'm really not into younger men), not like Black women, not like fat women, be Polyamorous, or into really weird shit.
President Donald Trump could very well burn our world down so here's to jumping off the ledge.
To the guy at the bookstore,
You were in the history section, then the business area. I was browsing the tables in the middle of the aisle, because I'm adamant the best books are there. Then I went to the sale section, because I really can't keep buying books. I saw you, and I panicked. I kept thinking of witty questions to approach you with. How about I ask you a couple over coffee? Same place, same time next week?