Blindsided

You know that feeling where you can kind of tell that someone is looking at you? Of course you don’t. You, for some reason, don’t have it. Everyone else in the world has experienced it, can describe it, but did some reason, you are oblivious.

Which, normally, is fine. That day, for example, you were quickly lost in the forest of literature, the smell of the books, enticed into the potential each tome contained. You had no idea that a pair of brown eyes were studying you, puzzling you out.

It was only after you had collected a stack of fiction, having spent an hour exploring the shelves, did you once again see the beautiful Jasmine Brown.

While you may be oblivious to the eyes that spy you, you are not unaware of the people you encounter face-to-face. Something had happened since you arrived at the library, something that had upset the lovely librarian. Her brown eyes had a ring of red around them, indicating that she had been crying. Her mouth was tight in controlled emotion. You placed your books on the counter in front of her and speak.

“Hey, uh, if you need a minute I can use the self check-out.”

The librarian’s hands slammed down on your books and pulled them toward herself, her knuckles white as she gripped their covers.

“No, I can help you,” she said, paused, then, “please let me help you.”

“No problem,” you responded with a grin, hoping to cheer her up, “you’re much nicer than a computer, anyway.”

She seemed to catch her breath for a moment, then her cheeks turned a bright red. She started to slowly scan your books, gently piling each on top of the other, staring at the counter as she seemed to be concentrating. It reminded you of the look someone made when they were searching for something to say. You wondered if that was how you had looked when you approached her when you had first arrived.

“Not too busy today,” you awkwardly said, trying to ease the tension.

She stopped scanning, then looked up at you with intensity.

“Look, I don’t really know how to do this,” said the woman you had longed for in your adolescence, “but I’d really like to go out with you,” She got quiet, leaning forward and spoke very softly, “like a date, or whatever.”

“Um, what?”

“A date. Like you and me, going out,” she said a little louder, eyes darting from side to side, seeming to worry about people hearing her, “that’s what guys like, isn’t it? We could go out, dinner or a movie, or maybe I could cook for you. I promise I’m a good cook. I just, I need…”

She stopped talking, then let out a groan of frustration.

“Hey, I’d love to go out with you,” you said, trying to sound cool, but feeling like a doofus, “I just figured… I’ve been coming in her for so many years and you never…” you realized that you were talking yourself out of a date with a goddess, “Yes. That’s what I mean. Yes.”

“Okay, that’s perfect,” she looked utterly relieved, “how about tonight? Can I come to your place and make you a meal? What kind of food do you like?”

“I’d rather not,” you said. Now you are the one feeling the heat of a blush in your face, “I’m still a student, and I kind of live with my parents. Can we do your place?”

“Shit. No. Shit,” she said, “we can’t use my place. We won’t have any privacy.”

“Roommate?”

“No, my wife,” she said, eyes locked on the counter once again.

“Your what?!”