The People You Never Get To Love

Old Books and Chekhov

The soles of my worn sneakers created a small cloud of dust on the sidewalk as I hopped down from the bus that aided my journey. The intense heat that permeated the air was a stark contrast to the cool airconditioned interior of the bus, with the humidity enough to coax sweat from my skin in what seemed like an instant. Neither bothered me much as I warily crossed the busy street, the vehicles passing by creating a wind that teased my hair at arrival before leaving it dust-coated. I had reached my destination, although not my final one, upon seeing the timeworn plaza with the faded white paint and concrete gray floors. Despite the bustling world outside, walking into the worn building felt like slowing down time in its entirety, the world that was running fell back to a casual stroll. Lines of humble shops surrounded the oblong center in which an ancient clock towered over, its hands still steadily moving, a defiant reminder to us who are lost in time that it still finds us here.

I cross the empty area, the sounds of my footsteps drowned by the low buzzing of life that emitted from every direction: the sounds of two older men deep in discussion over cups of coffee in an old Kopitiam, the operatic melodies of a woman coming from the loudly played radio in the humble music shop, a group of young girls in school uniforms chatting animatedly as they walked down from the second floor with bags of art supplies in their arms, and many more coming together in a symphony that only life could make. 

My body moves almost automatically to the unassuming second-hand bookstore tucked away in the corner, a place where I had spent more weekends than I do at home. As a routine, I stop to browse the books stacked in front of the store, mostly comics and gas station romance books that are desperate for new homes. I've never picked out anything from those particular stacks but I do try to find something of value to sell for a higher price. My search, as always, resulted in nothingness before I enter the true cove of treasures. To those whose interests lie elsewhere, the narrow rows of tightly packed books were not something to bother with; but to those whose hearts beat and passion burns for words and knowledge, there lies a nirvana. The interior of the shop wasn't big and even invoked a slight wave of claustrophobia as the distance of the bookcases were just large enough for one person to slide into, but it held a comfort I wouldn't trade for the world. 

"Hello, Mochi." I greeted the fat cat that was sleeping on the wooden counter. He lazily looked up at me before curling back into the thickness of his calico fur. I ran my hand between his ears before walking towards the center row where the fiction books were shelved haphazardly. It was a marketing strategy, Uncle Lim, the owner of the bookstore claimed to me one day when I had offered my time to rearrange the books. A marketing strategy, just like his policy of letting those adopting the books, pay the amount they think it's worth. It was so people would stay longer to find what they were looking for and end up buying more books from their scavenger hunt, he had said with a toothy grin. In my own mind, I had another reason, it's so the books would find homes to people who had spent time and energy to find them in the chaos of it all, surely they would be loved and cared for there.

My fingers hovered over the covers worn by time and lack of care, not really finding anything that I hadn't found yet in the weeks before. I had reached the end of the aisle, coming out to the walkway where the non-fiction books lined the back wall. My attention was drawn to the left corner where the literature books were and at that moment I realized I wasn't alone.

He stood there, bespeckled eyes deeply lost in Chekhov as his unoccupied hand rested in the pocket of his hooded jacket that was the color of midnight. It wasn't unusual for me to encounter other drifting souls in this cavern of words, but it was unusual for me to be intrigued by one. It was from the way he looked so calm and at ease within the accompaniment of the books, or maybe from his touch that looked so gentle and caring against the worn spine. He emitted warmth and yet a sadness was in his posture as if he were carrying an invisible weight that physically encumbered him. I was tempted to approach him, to introduce myself, and maybe launch into a discussion about Chekhov.  He looked up, his eyes catching my eyes catching his. I turned my wistful stare away as the closest book in front of me suddenly caught my interest. 

We stood there in comfortable silence as I would occasionally sneak a glance at him, the sound of the fan above and the turning of pages being the only sounds shared between us. He let out a sigh when his eyes sought after the hands of his watch, the realization that our time together had come to an end. His gaze towards me was wistful before he walked away, once more becoming strangers who you might never encounter again. 

Out of my many encounters in that small trove of books, never before had one intrigued me and left me sorrowful upon their departure. My eyes went back to the marching black letters tattoed on the weathering pages of the book, but my mind had wandered to where he was and what could have happened if I had spoken up. The romantic in me told a love story with soft kisses and heated book discussions, the warmth of his hoodie a comfort during rainy days, his body leaning against mine as I try to help carry the weight he carried and happiness in which I haven't felt.

It was a path of possibilities now locked away, a curiosity that will never be sated but an encounter that will never be forgotten. The books around are a witness to another story, but one that will never be written and only exists in my imagination.