Sam Turner
i wuv oo
He first laid eyes on her four days earlier in the used bookstore across the street from his office. He’d gone there on his lunch break, deciding that the sandwich in his desk drawer could wait a couple of hours and he really ought to do something different. So to the bookstore he went. And there she was, a vision in a green cardigan with a long braid roped down her back, staring at a shelf of poetry. He moved closer, watching the way she trailed a finger across the spines of the books, thoroughly entranced. She glanced at him and asked if she could help him find something, and he was shocked as he heard himself ask her to dinner. Do something different indeed, he thought. He was even more shocked when she smiled, shrugged, and said “Sure.”
When he called precisely one day and a half later, she asked if it would be okay if they cooked dinner at her place instead of going out; her puppy was sick and she didn’t feel comfortable leaving him at home. He said that was fine and wrote down the address. Then he called his sister and asked what he should do. His sister told him to be helpful in the kitchen. She told him to bring flowers.
The day of the date arrived. He was nervous, but that was normal. He was nearly always nervous. He got ready, he drove to her place, he left his jacket in the car. Helpful in the kitchen, he thought. Bring flowers. Got it.
He rang the bell, cleared his throat, and waited for her to answer the door.
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