Tell her.

Tell her how you feel.

Was he imagining it, or did she flush ever-so-slightly when he took out a romantic novel? She would smile and look off to the side when she stamped his card. Handing him the book, she said the same thing to him every time: “Enjoy”.

That was it, “Enjoy”.

Was she laughing at him? Did her thoughts return to some lover, some earlier, happier time? He desperately wanted to know. What caused that scar on the knuckle of her right thumb? What gave her the fragrance of fresh earth and daisies? Did she sometimes think of him?

As he stepped out onto the street the sliding doors sighed, he sighed, and unknown to him, she sighed.