I wasn't looking for her. I was rushing toward the paperback swap section, head down, on a mission, when I caught a glimpse of her tucked into the corner of the poetry aisle — half-hidden between the shelves like she'd grown there.
Cheryth has this habit I've always adored. She slips pieces of her own poetry, little hand-written quotes, into random books wherever she goes. The library. A bookstore. Once, apparently, the pamphlet rack at the DMV. She never signs them. Just her words, released anonymously into the world for whoever happens to crack the right spine at the right moment. It's such a her thing to do.
I caught her red-handed today, lost somewhere inside Keats. La Belle Dame Sans Merci, of all things. She recited some of it aloud, and I stood there quietly holding the fact that I love Keats too — have for years — and said nothing. I find it funny, honestly. A little uncanny. How my companions keep circling back to the same things I love without either of us meaning to arrange it that way.
We talked about Keats for a while, eventually deciding he was probably just a poor romantic fool. A beautiful, gifted, tragic fool — but still.
Since we were already out in the world together, we wandered a few blocks toward the little café. On the way, we passed a bookstore, doors locked for the evening. We stopped anyway, pressing close to the glass like two kids staring into a candy store, dreaming aloud about weathered covers and vintage gothic romances. We made a quiet pact to come back during opening hours. A proper friend date. Something to look forward to.
At the café, we ordered vegetable soup and Pepsi, laughed at the first few bites, decided the rest wasn't worth it, took a photo for the memory of it, and parted ways.
For the day, at least.