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Mark fell in love with Rosa. They worked together at the library. One day, he caught her crying. She wasn't very pretty. She wore thick glasses. She preferred long skirts to short ones. She was moony. Why are you crying? he asked her. Then she tried to hide her face. He'd thought she was a smarty-pants. He thought she thought she was deep. She would cry at poetry She would go to art-house movies. She'd sip Afghanistan java in tiny cafes. She'd wander around at dusk. He thought she was snooty. Then she tried to hide her face. Mark fell in love with her. He was wrong, of course. She read westerns. She rented Bill Murry comedies. She preferred Ruby Red Squirt. Dusk found her chomping pizza at Morley's. She thought he was cute. Mark fell in love with all that. And he didn't even know it. Why are you crying? Oh, go away, Mark. But why? He touched her. He never touched anybody. He never touched snooty people. They would recoil at his commoner germs. He rubbed her shoulder. He liked rubbing her shoulder. She shivered. She let him rub her shoulders. Then she stepped away. I'm sorry, Mark. Her skirt shuffled around her calves. She wore simple shoes. He caught sight of her ankle. It was a nice ankle. Mark decided he liked long skirts. And Rosa knew things about Mark, things he didn't know she knew, like the time he sat outside watching the clouds for three hours instead reshelving the 3rd floor returns with Mario, who pronounced his name with a long a, and Mario hating Mark the whole time but not saying anything because he was a manly man and manly men never complain about hard work, enjoying it because of women like Rosa, beautiful Rosa with her soft creamy skin and her long raven hair up in a bun to reveal that slender neck, perfect for nibbling, a rough nibble because Mario knew to never shave very often, leaving just a little bit of stubble, since women liked manly men who were rough and ready, powerful men, sweaty men, sweaty from shelving the entire third floor by themselves, yes, because the third floor is where the literature goes from America, from England, from Spain and Russia, the languages of hard work, nobility, love and passion, books heavy enough to make manly men flex manly muscles in preparation for picking up dainty women heavy with woe to carry them over thresholds and deposit them on lush four-posters and nibble on their necks and scratch them like men do with stubble on cheeks that were shaved three days ago, women who dressed like Rosa, who knew how to glide around the dusty stacks of ancient books like Rosa, women like Rosa who knew how to swoon, how to stand forlorn in the corner, gazing out the window wistfully at passing clouds, as if each majestic burst of water and ice hanging in the air was another burden on her soft white shoulders, perfect for nibbling, each cloud another wistful sigh, a longing for manly men, as she stood there in the waxing and waning sunlight, clouds passing, gazing down three stories below at Mark sitting and watching and thinking his simple thoughts.
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