You Love Me(You #3)(6)

I didn’t mean to cry—it was allergies, it was William Carlos Williams, it was the saga of poor Howie Okin—and you hand me a tissue. “It’s so comforting that you get it. I know it’s not my ‘job’ to read poems when some of these patrons have a bad day but it’s a library. It’s an honor to be in here and we can do so much and I just…”

“Sometimes we all need a poem.”

You smile at me. For me. Because of me. “I have a good feeling about you.”

You’re moved because I’m moved—you think I was crying for Howie—and you welcome me aboard and we shake hands—skin on skin—and I make a promise in my head. I’m gonna be your man, Mary Kay. I’m gonna be the man you think I am, the guy who has empathy for Howie, for my evil baby mama, for everyone on this terrible fucking planet. I won’t kill anyone who gets in our way, even though, well… never mind.

You laugh. “Can I have my hand back, please?”

I give you your hand and I walk out of your office and I want to kick down the shelves and tear up all the pages because I don’t need to read any fucking books anymore! Now I know what all the poets were talking about. I’m doing it, Mary Kay.

I’m carrying your heart in my heart.

I lost my son. I lost my family. But maybe bad things really do happen for a reason. All those toxic women won me over and fucked me over because they were part of a larger plan to push me onto this rock, into this library.

I see you in your office, on the phone again, twirling the phone cord. You look different, too. You already love me, too, maybe, and you deserve it, Mary Kay. You waited a long time. You gave birth. You give poems to Howie and you never got to open your bookstore—we’ll get there—and you pushed your Murakami on that Mothball, as if that Mothball could ever appreciate being all but sucked inside. You’ve spent your life in your office, looking up at the posters you held onto since high school, the pop star and the rock star. Life never lived up to the lyrics of their songs, to the passion, but I’m here now. I have a good feeling about you.

We’re the same but different. If I’d had a kid when I was young, I would have been like you. Responsible. Patient. Sixteen years in one fucking job on one fucking island. And you’d fight to make things better if you were so alone like me and this morning, we both got out of bed. We both felt alive. I put on my brand-new sweater and you put on that blue bra and your tights, your little skirt. You liked me on the phone. Maybe you rubbed one out while Cedar Cove was muted on your TV and am I blushing? I think so. I pick up my badge and my lanyard at the front desk. I like my picture. I never looked better. Never felt better.

I clip the badge to the lanyard—how satisfying, when life makes sense, when things click, you and me, beef and broccoli, the badge and the lanyard—and my heart beats a little faster and then it beats a little slower. I’m not a sonless father anymore. I have purpose. You did this to me. You gave this to me. You placed a special order and here I am, tagged. Lanyard official. And I’m not afraid that I’m getting ahead of myself. I want to fall for you. I’ve had it rough, yeah, but you’ve had to hold it together for a child. I’m your long overdue book, the one you never thought was coming. I took a while to get here and I got banged up along the way, but good things only come to people like us, Mary Kay, people willing to wait and suffer and bide the time staring at the stars on the walls, the bare concrete blocks in the cell. I pull my lanyard down over my head and it feels like it was made for me, because it was, even though it wasn’t. Perfect.





2





Yesterday I overheard two Mothballs call us lovebirds and today we’re in our usual lunch spot outside on the love seat in the Japanese garden. We eat lunch here every fucking day and right now you are laughing, because we’re always laughing, because this is it, Mary Kay. You’re the one.

“No,” you say. “Tell me you did not really steal Nancy’s newspaper.”

Nancy is my fecal-eyed neighbor and you went to high school with Nancy. You don’t like her but you’re friends with her—women—and I tell you that I had to steal her newspaper because she cut me in line at our local coffeehouse, Pegasus. You nod. “I guess that’s karma.”

“You know what they say, Mary Kay. Be the change you want to see in the world.”

You laugh again and you are thrilled that someone is finally standing up to Nancy and you still can’t believe I live next door to her, that I live right around the corner from you. You chew on your beef—we eat beef and broccoli every day—and you close your eyes and raise a finger. You need time—this is the most serious part of our lunch—and I count down ten seconds and I make a buzzer noise. “Well, Ms. DiMarco? Sawan or Sawadty?”

You tilt your head like a food critic. “Sawan. Has to be Sawan.”

You failed again and I make another buzzer noise and you are feisty and you tell me that you will fucking win one of these days and I smile. “I think we both won, Mary Kay.”

You know I’m not talking about a stupid Thai food taste test and you wipe a happy tear off your cheek. “Oh, Joe, you kill me. You do.”

You say things like that to me every day and we should be naked on the Red Bed by now. We’re getting there. Your cheeks are rosy and you already gave me a promotion. I am the Fiction Specialist and I built a new section in the library called “The Quiet Ones” where we feature books like Ann Petry’s The Narrows, lesser-known works by famous authors. You said it’s nice to see books find new eyes and you knew I was watching you shake your ass when you walked away. You’re glued to me in the library, every chance you get, and you’re glued to me here, on the love seat, warning me that Fecal Eyes might rat me out on Nextdoor.