The Girl I Bumped into at the bookstore

Rain was falling on a Saturday afternoon when I entered the cozy, special little, independent bookstore on the corner of Elm Street. Raindrops’ striking percussion on the curtains on the windows made a cozy rhythm that filled the room with sound and the light from hanging bulbs of the room’s “yellow” space enveloped each of the volumes of bookshelves.
I had no specific purpose for being there—I just needed an escape. My week was, by any measure, a firehose of meetings, tasks, and stress all played into crushing me. A worn and comfy, obscure bookstore filled with tiny surprises seemed like the ideal spot to dabble in and disappear again.
I hit a person if I entered one of the narrow aisles. Startled, I lifted my head and there she was. She gripped a paperback in her fingers and her very dark, rippling hair drew a woman’s profile, straight out of a painting. As for her eyes, they were a matter of a fact beautiful dark brown, pleasant, curious, and at the same time mysterious eyes.
I’m so, so sorry, I said, giving way to make a little space for her.
And she smiled and it’s the kind of smile that could make even the darkest of a day shine. “No problem. It’s a tight squeeze,” she whispered gently, with a grin.
I glanced at the book she was holding. “Pride and Prejudice,” I noted. “A classic.
Her eyes lit up. “One of my favorites. I’ve read it a dozen times and yet always discover something lurking in it. Do you like it?”
“I do,” I admitted. However, I have observed Mr. Darcy to be a bit slow in the sharing of words of heart.
She laughed again, and the sound was melodic. “True, though that’s what gives the story its charm. The wait, the tension.”
I must be right,” I said, “and surprised to find myself so. Relaxed around her. “I’m Adeel, by the way.”
“Zoya,” she replied, extending her hand. Her handshake was both strong and soft, and I made an extra squeeze holding onto her a bit too long before dropping her again.
We lingered for a second (and only) time, spellbound in profound contemplation in the presence of towering towers of books and the ghost of the roasted coffee from the shop’s cafe swirling around outside the universe. As if the rest of the world had vanished leaving only us in that tiny room.
Do you visit here often, I inquired, continuing the conversation.
“Now and then,” she said. “I love the atmosphere here. It’s my escape.”
“Same here,” I said. “Being surrounded by stories has a certain enchanting allure. It’s like walking through a thousand worlds at the same time,” wrote the author.
She nodded, her eyes softening. “Exactly. Books are right for letting us feel less lonely.
We chatted naturally as if we had been introduced to each other years ago. We shared a bit of a chat on the authors we’ve held to be sacred, the books that have dislodged us and the books still nestled in our “To be read” stacks. Time completely froze and before I knew it the rain stopped, leaving a world shimmering beneath the soft sunlight of the setting sun.
“Would you like to grab a coffee? I offered, my pulse quickening, “There’s a café nearby.”
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “I’d love to.”
We proceeded to the café and the chatter never stopped. It all just happened so naturally, effortlessly, as if we were two puzzle pieces that had seen each other again. For several cups of hot coffee, we shared life experiences. I found out that she was a freelance graphic designer on freelance, painting and she had a soft spot for shelter dogs. It turned out that I am a software engineer (and also an imaging and dream travel enthusiast).
The more time passed, the more I shifted in the opposite direction. There was something about Zoya that felt different, special. Not only was she stunning, but she was kind, smart, and had a talent for making you feel roughly seen and heard.
“Time is up,” she whispered, stealing a glance at her wristwatch. “I should probably head home.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t quite ready to turn off the lights, yet. “Can I walk you to your car?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
The first time we walked through the cool night air, the city lights looked like stars. We walked side by side, our shoulders occasionally brushing. Approaching her car, she stopped to meet me, expression a combination of control and sympathy.
“Thank you for today, Adeel,” she said. “I had a wonderful time.”
Yeah, I said, my voice very low. “Can I see you again?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I’d like that.”
He/she handed me his/her cell phone and I recorded his/her number, then turned it over to him/her, before. As soon as she got in her car and drove away, I stood up and kept looking until she disappeared around the bend in her taillights. My chest constricted, but for the first time in what appeared to be years, a thin thread of hope appeared.
The Beginning of Something Beautiful
Over the coming weeks, I and Zoya bumped into each other multiple times by chance. We roamed the streets, went to the art museums, dinned in unknown restaurants, and dinned for hours talking about everything under the sun. Each day my love for her intensified.
On a snowy Christmas Eve, we revisited the shop where we first met, etc. It had become our pocket, our sanctuary from the absurdity of time marches on. Wandering down the aisles I could not help but be overwhelmed with the feeling that she had become to me, such a big part of who I am.
“Zoya,” I said, stopping in my tracks. She turned to look at me, her eyes questioning.
I have something to tell you,” I said, my voice cracking. It’s been the most wonderful thing to meet you. You’ve filled my life with joy for which I can’t imagine a day without you.
Her eyes softened, and she took a step closer. “Adeel…”
I think I’m in love with you,” I blurted out, my face burning.
For a fleeting instant there she said nothing and I could not help but have my overstepping in my mind. Yet she smiled, and a drop of tears went down her cheek.
I’ve been looking for you to say it,” she said. “Because I feel the same way.”
With every step she took the relief and ecstasy flooded my being. Approaching her softly, I caught the image of her face between my palms and then kissed her gently and tenderly, with a loving kiss. It was a magic, perfect moment as if it were on the written stars.
If we withdrew she ascended and touched the top of my head with her forehead, at the same time she gazed into my own with shining eyes. Thank you that I met you on that day,” she responded murmuringly.
“Me too,” I replied, my heart full.
And in that tiny, corner bookstore on Elm Street, among tales of love and escapades, our story took hold so I knew it would be my favorite of all.