The next day, Charlotte came to work at the bookstore on time; she worked a short-term job, from 4:00 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. every day, with only one day off a week. In her free time, she also worked as a proofreader for a magazine, which she contacted through one of her classmates who was an editor. Despite working two jobs on the side, they didn't add up to much income. She had just graduated a few months ago and had already changed two jobs, the first was in the PR department of a joint venture, which she quit after a month. The second job was in the sales department of a hotel for an even shorter period of time, only one week. She felt that she was not naturally suited to office work, and as soon as she sat down in an office, she had a lethargic feeling. She didn't really want it to be like that, but she couldn't help herself, so she had to take a short job at this little bookstore in the subway, spending her days facing rows of books that didn't talk.
On this day Charlotte wasn't quite like her usual self; from the moment she got to work she stood close to the front of the store, with a quick glance down the subway concourse. She stood in front of the first row of bookshelves, which held the bestsellers, and a few passers-by came in to look at them.Charlotte's eyes did not look at them, but kept them pointed outwards, while the handkerchief with the embroidered flute was in the pocket of her blouse.She was waiting for him to show up, and she was waiting for him to show up.
She was waiting for him to appear.
The watch went from four o'clock until nine-thirty, and the bookstore became less and less crowded, so that finally only she and the cashier were left.Charlotte was a little tired, and she retreated back to the last row of shelves, picking up the same copy of the collected novels of Jorge Luis Borges that the man had read yesterday.The bookstore was a little more crowded than she had expected, but she was not sure if it was the right one for her to read. She turned to the page of "The Circular Ruins" and read a few lines of it in a haphazard silence, but she didn't take in a word of it.Charlotte secretly laughed at her own naivety, she was twenty-two years old, but sometimes she was as fanciful and capricious as a seven year old girl.She thought that the man would not come back again. She thought that man would not come again, maybe yesterday was just one of his occasional visits to the subway, losing a handkerchief was so insignificant to a man that he probably wouldn't even remember the handkerchief's existence himself.
Charlotte sighed slightly and put the book of Borges' novels back into the shelf. Suddenly, she saw a hand reach into the shelf and pull out a copy of Eliot's Selected Poems. She looked up and saw a pair of tantalizing eyes.
He was coming.
Charlotte was only a dozen centimeters from his eyes, so close that she could feel his even nostrils. She couldn't help but take a big step back, but her gaze remained fixed on him.
The corners of his mouth slanted slightly, and those eyes seemed to speak to Charlotte: what's wrong with you?
The handkerchief, the silk handkerchief embroidered with a flute, Charlotte's mind was occupied with that handkerchief. She breathed heavily, her chest heaving, her voice finally escaping from her throat, "The handkerchief."
He didn't seem to respond for a moment, still looking at her with that look in his eyes.Charlotte suddenly had a strange thought and prayed in her mind that he wasn't really a mute or a deaf man.
He wasn't.
"Handkerchief?" He asked rhetorically, his voice soft and somewhat magnetic.
Charlotte nodded, then pulled the handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him. When he saw the flute embroidered on the handkerchief, he finally understood. An extremely coy smile appeared at the corners of his mouth, which looked extremely incongruous with his pale face.
"Thank you, I forgot about it myself." He nodded to Charlotte, and before taking the handkerchief, he stared into Charlotte's eyes and said, "You washed it?"
Charlotte was taken aback, how did he know? Last night, she did wash the handkerchief when she got home. However, she had washed it in water alone, without using any soap or detergent or anything like that. Moreover, the handkerchief was clean before washing, and there was no odor, so it could not be smelled by the nose alone. Besides, the handkerchief was still in Charlotte's hands now.
"How did you know that?"
"You told me." He took the handkerchief then, rubbing the soft silk gently in his hands before tucking it back into the pocket of his black trench coat.
Charlotte shook her head and said, "No, I didn't tell you."
"It was your eyes that told me."
"Eyes?" Charlotte froze, reaching out to touch her eyelids before continuing to stare into his eyes.
He said shyly, "Thank you so much for not only returning my handkerchief but also washing it clean."
"It's, it's nothing," she replied, somewhat nervous now.
The female cashier called out again, "Charlotte, it's closing time."
Charlotte suddenly felt a dislike towards the woman and ignored her, standing at the back. He felt embarrassed and put the book, "Selected Poems of T.S. Eliot," back on the shelf, whispering, "Sorry for keeping you from closing."
"It's okay."
"Thank you, goodbye." After saying that, he quickly walked out. Charlotte stood there in a daze for a moment. When she reached the doorway of the shop, his figure was already out of sight.
The cashier had rushed to leave first, leaving Charlotte alone in the bookstore. His eyes kept floating before her eyes – would he come again tomorrow?