Love is a Three Letter Word [You]

I

There was something about the way the light shined through the windows that always fascinated Vincent. This bookstore, for the most part, was nothing unusual but each day the sun would hit the bookshelves in a way that entranced him by the minute. He would always look out, upon the sea of books, and smile at the inviting rays of light. Light is terrible for books. Light discolors the pages and heat will melt the plastic of the book covers, but he ignored those small facts every time. It just looked so perfect. Especially today, for he happened to notice him staring.

He was tall, a bit too tall for Vincent's liking but not too tall to discount. He'd seen some things, likely was in the military at some point. No. He never joined but he did attend boot camp. A boarding school, perhaps? His parents, father, must be military trained. He doesn't like drinking but he tends to be dragged out to things where drinking just so happens to be on the agenda. He is impatient, scanning the shelves for a book he isn't sure he will find in a run-down place like this. This is the place for classic literature, not the New York Times bestsellers. That's the front row right when you walk in. Just to keep the place in business.

Vincent shook his head and went back to placing price tag stickers on the stack of books next to the cash register. He ignored the attractive man in the corner, desperately asking for help, and stopped trying to figure out everything about him. That wasn't his job. He couldn't do this, not again, not after what happened to her. It was too soon to branch out and find someone else. He needed to igno-

"Excuse me," the male walked over on his own volition.

"How may I help you?" Vincent lifted his head and smiled.

"You work here, yeah? But do you actually read anything?" his thick black eyebrows furrowed. Vincent couldn't help but chuckle a bit.

"Yes, reading is one of my hobbies." Vincent placed the book in his hand down and walked out from behind the counter. "Is there something specific that you're looking for?"

"Yes, well, no, ugh," he slid his hand down his face and sighed. "Can you just show me to the poetry section? It's a maze in here."

"Oh? Are you a poet?" Vincent continued with his mild grin and gestured for the male to follow. The poetry section was the hardest to find for those that didn't venture into the store very often. Vincent didn't take this person for a writer, let alone poet, but poetry comes in all forms.

"No, I just need a book for an assignment or something like that. I should've read the instructions more clearly," he was obviously irritated but Vincent wondered if that was just his overall personality. He kept looking from bookshelf to bookshelf as if the space between them wasn't enough for his liking. Was he claustrophobic? Self-conscious, perhaps?

"Well, if you need to analyze some random pieces of poetry or the like," Vincent pointed to one of the books on the top shelf. "The one with the red spine there is decent." Now, he might be a tad short and thin as a rail but there was one thing Vincent was confident of and that was his figure. Slender back and long appendages. He stood up the tips of his toes and barely grazed the book's spine. But his intention wasn't to grab the book, just to observe if the cute customer was looking at him in the right places. He didn't wear tight clothing just for the hell of it.

"I can almost..." just a bit more and his shirt would ride up to reveal his boney self, but hey, he had a v-line and that's all this stranger needed to know.

"I've got it," Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome finally stepped in to grab the book. Vincent could tell he wasn't paying attention to the close proximity because he hardly waited for the male to step out of the way. Vincent barely even lowered his arm and Mr. Handsome decided that pressing his torso up against Vincent's back was standard first interaction procedure. Was he daring? Or just absent-minded? Those muscles, however, were entirely worth it.

The stranger resumed a satisfactory distance and flipped through the book. His face was still entirely focused on being agitated. Ah, so he was just absent-minded and had no idea what he'd just done to the short and innocent bookstore clerk. How disappointing.

"I suppose this will have to do," he slammed the book shut.

"Do you not like reading?" Vincent, trying his damndest to keep a conversation alive just a bit longer, forced himself to ask.

"I'm a bit too busy for this kind of thing now. However, I don't have much of a choice. A friend of mine suggested reading poetry might inspire something to write about." A writer? That just seemed off. But, who was Vincent to judge?

"I know what you're thinking," he crossed his arms and shook his head. "I don't look like a writer, do I?"

"Writers come in all different sorts," Vincent shrugged.

"I could see it in your eyes but nice save, I suppose," he chuckled a bit. "Thanks for your help, uh," he glanced down at Vincent's nametag. "Vincent."

"Hello? Does anyone actually work here?" a customer grumbled at the register.

"I'm coming," Vincent called, making his way over. "I swear, if it's just the guy who buys random books to cover up his obsession with porn, I'm going to throw something," he grumbled to himself walking down the aisles of bookshelves. The cute stranger must've heard him because he could hear soft chuckling. That's good, the guy was finally starting to unscrunch his face.

"Sorry for the wait," Vincent shot him a smile and scanned the books into the register after making it behind the counter. In case the audience was wondering, it was the guy who just buys a random book to cover up the real book he wanted to read. What does he do with all the ones he uses as cover-ups? Vincent mourned those books in silence as he completed the transaction.

"He looked like quite the asshole," the handsome stranger placed his lone book down.

"He is a regular though so I can't be too mean," Vincent replied, ringing him up. He could see clearly that the wallet was a fine (and expensive) one with plenty of cash to cover this single book and yet the cute stranger was paying with a card. Why was that? He glanced down at the name. Diedrich. Diedrich Dalles. Very alliterative. Dalles. Where had he heard that name before?

"My name is Diedrich. It's German but looking at it spelled out is kind of morbid. I have the word 'die' in my name, so people call me Dee."

"Well, Dee, hope to see you around sometime. Come back and tell me if you liked any of those poems," Vincent handed the man his rightful receipt and purchase and watched as he walked out of that door.

He wasn't interested. Of course, he wasn't interested. He certainly wasn't going to memorize the name and look him up later. No. Not at all. It was too soon after what happened with his last relationship. Yes. Too soon.

If that was the case, then why was he searching Diedrich Dalles up on every platform of social media while he was still on the clock? Ah, the curse of love sinks in once more.