Leopold

4 | September 8th

4 | September 8th

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved as much as understood." - George Orwell

There wasn’t really a secret to winning the heart of Waldo Weissenstein. His soul was patched together with useless historical facts and excerpts from novels, his entire diet consisting of pistachios and expensive coffee.

Saturday morning, I showed up at Waldo’s bright and early with a new, stiff copy of 1984 and a fairly large cup of some unpronounceable, caffeinated beverage. The door was locked, but the lights were on, so I fished the spare key out from beneath the decorative flowerpot and let myself in.

“Hello?” No one answered, so I stashed my bag behind the counter and made my way up the stairs to the office. “Waldo?”

I knocked, briefly, before pushing the door open. It immediately collided with his enormous oak desk; one he rarely used and insisted on keeping. I had to press myself flat to fit through the gap, stepping over the Oxford English Dictionary piled haphazardly on the floor.

Waldo was splayed across the desk, his forehead bracing itself on the bankbook. I stepped closer, realizing, on closer inspection, that he was asleep. His clothes were wrinkled – as well as a memento from the day before - and he was still clutching a pen in his left hand, like he had fallen asleep in the midst of jotting something down.

“Hey,” I tapped his shoulder with my free hand. “Hey, time to get up.”

His left shoulder twitched, but he didn’t stir. “Waldo, it’s Gen.”

“Wake up.”

“Waldo.”

“Waldo.”

Finally, he let out a muffled groan. “I heard you the first time.”

I rolled my eyes. “If only I had any sign or indication that you were awake.”

He placed his palms on the desktop, using them to push himself into a half-sitting position. He winced - I would be stiff too if I slept on my desk all night - but said through gritted teeth, “what time is it? Half-past why are you here?”

I shot a glance at the clock, miniscule in comparison to the polished wood monstrosity. “Seven fifty, almost eight.”

“What?”

“How late were you here?” When he took his time answering, rubbing his eyes with the base of his hands, I perched on the edge of the desk. “Twelve? One?”

He mumbled something, and I had to ask him to repeat it. “Four.”

I managed to hold my tongue. I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday; after Liam had left with a copy of Self-Reliance and Other Essays, Waldo had refused to speak to me, only coming out to flip the sign and count the cash in the drawer. Every once in a while, he would shoot me ironic looks of betrayal. “I brought coffee,” I told him after a minute, extending the cup.