She was seated next to the “New Age” section, her shoes beside her bare feet.
“I got this for you,” she said, showing me what she was reading, using the receipt as a bookmark. The Magus of Freemasonry. “I thought it was appropriate.”
“What are you listening to?” I asked her.
She looked down at her iPod. “Swordfishtrombone,” she said. She sang along.
and he holed up in a room above a hardware store
cryin' nothing there but Hollywood tears
and he put a spell on some
poor little Crutchfield girl
and stayed like that for 27 years
I sat down. She took a sip. “You want anything?” she asked. I shook my head.
She put the book down, slid it across the little table to me. I picked it up. It felt heavy. I looked inside, found a CD.
“I’d like you to look at this,” she said, a wink ready at any moment.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something that requires your permission,” she told me. Then, she stood, gathered her drink and her iPod. “Let me know,” she said.
I watched her leave. The long, black skirt that I like. Then, she turned, came back. “Forgot my shoes,” she said. Picking them up, watching me watch her.