December

“Sir, may I help you?”

His shoulders tensed up briefly before relaxing again. Then he got up and traced the row of books with his finger until he stopped at one. Without turning around, without his finger leaving the book, he replied, “I am looking for December.”

“I have never heard of this book before. Who wrote it?”

“Andrea. Andrea Schiavone.”

“Perhaps you got it wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t published. Perhaps it wasn’t even written.”

I could sense the quiver in my voice.
***
“Sir, may I help you?”

That voice jolted me from my aimless browsing…that voice from the past.

To tell the truth, I thought a lot about how things would turn out…if we were to meet again. I also thought about what I would say, and then I would rather we not meet, because I wouldn’t know what to say. There was once when I thought we were on a collision course. When it turned out that I had made a mistake, I was more relieved than anything else.

I wanted to say ‘No.’ “I am looking for December.”

“I have never heard of this book before. Who wrote it?”

‘Liar,’ I screamed within me.

“Andrea. Andrea Schiavone.”

You said that you would write a book, a book about us. You said that you would title it ‘December’, because we first met in December.

Had you known then that we would also part in December?

“Perhaps you got it wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t published. Perhaps it wasn’t even written.”

Your voice was shaking.

I spun around and grabbed your arm. “Can you say you have never loved me before?”

Your silence, your eyes gave me your answer.

Tell me, why did you approach me then?