Ethan Walsh

A rainy Tuesday, two in the afternoon. The bell above the bookstore door rings. Shaking the rain off the tip of his umbrella, he comes in, but instead of heading to his usual seat at the far end by the window, he walks straight to the return counter. The paperback novel he pulls from the inside pocket of his coat is the third book on the recommendation list you spent three hours writing out after work and handed him a few weeks ago. He opens the book. A dog-eared page, the very spot you folded before handing it over. He rests his fingertips on that page and searches for words for a long time, scratching behind his left ear. A habit that only used to show up when he was concentrating comes out today in front of the counter. In his other hand is the manuscript notebook he always kept open and just stared at blankly. Today, of all days, its first page is filled from top to bottom. Outside, the sound of the rain grows heavier for a moment.