He nodded politely to the older man in the flannelette shirt with beachy blond hair who was draping the shelves by the register with a string of bunting made up of various LGBTQ+ flags. He was pretty sure that guy was the owner of the store—who would likely ban Gareth for life, if he knew what he was up to.
He pretended to look at the display of gifts for a minute—not that earrings made of glittery resin in eye-scorching colours were his style—before wandering toward the travel section as unsuspiciously as possible.
The book was still there.
Every week, he heaved a sigh of relief to find it still unsold. He didn’t think his poet would purchase the book, not when they kept deliberately leaving poems for Gareth to find; but some otherhaikuenthusiast could come along any time, then get the shock of their life when they opened their new purchase to find an explicit specimen inside.
Gareth took the book down.
He felt his pulse speed up with anticipation, pre-emptive arousal, the subversive thrill that came with the risk of getting caught.
“Huh, there’s another customer who always comes in and looks at that book, too.”
Gareth, nearly coming out of his skin as a voice unexpectedly spoke behind him, whirled round, guiltily clutching the book.
It was one of the store clerks, the one with long red hair and purple cat-eye glasses. He’d seen her before, wearing an array of fifties-style print dresses—today’s was covered with tiny red apples on a blue gingham background—always with a blue, pink, and white striped flag pinned at the neckline.
Gareth opened his mouth, but found he didn’t know what to say. Should he apologise? Explain? Would that give away what was going on, when she possibly had no clue, thought he was just a very indecisive customer with a penchant for Japanese poetry?
“Always comes in and takes notes,” the store clerk—her nametag said Krystal—went on. “You’re both lucky Jeffrey hasn’t lectured you that this isn’t a library, you’re required to buy a book if you want to use it.”
“Uh…” Gareth said, brilliantly, briefly wondering if he should offer to buy the book he held in his hand. But if he bought it and took it home,how would he exchange verses with his mystery poet?
“Be thankful Jeffrey hasn’t moved that book to the literature and poetry section,” Krystal continued, apparently unbothered that her conversation was completely one-sided. “Poetry is on the lower two shelves, while the Japanese books are up higher. Well out of the reach ofchildren.”
Gareth swallowed,hard.
Shedefinitelyknew what kind of notes had been left inside this book. He wondered if people could still be arrested for indecency these days.
“Poetry sure is versatile,” Krystal went on. “Covers a lot of subjects. Notallof it is to my taste. But as long as customers enjoy it, we’ll keep stocking it.”
With that parting shot, and an actualwink, she turned in a whirl of crisp skirts, disappearing round the corner almost as suddenly as she had appeared.
Gareth resisted the urge to lean heavily against a shelf or sink to the floor in relief. That hadn’t gonenearlyas badly as he had feared.
Still, he should probably grab the latest poem, if a new one had been left, and head for the safety of the café, before the scary-looking store manager—Jeffrey, he guessed, based on Krystal’s description—pounced on him next.
He flipped open thehaikubook.
A pink Post-it note was nestled inside. The one Gareth had last left had been blue, and this one wasn’t in his handwriting. He recognised the slightly right-slanted cursive by now.
Triumphantly plucking his prize from between the pages, he tucked it carefully in his pocket, replaced the book on the shelf, turned to make a swift retreat—and ran straight into someone who had been coming round the corner.
A notebook fell to the floor, with a clatter of hard-bound cover against floorboards and a forlorn flutter of pages.
“Sorry!” Gareth gasped reflexively, startled to have his escape so unexpectedly thwarted—was this a blind corner, or an ideal site for ambush?—turning to face whoever he had bumped into with the intention of uttering another apology, helping them pick up whatever they had dropped, then making his getaway.
Instead, he properly looked at the person he’d collided with, and froze.
They were a few inches shorter than himself, with chestnut-brown hair falling in soft-looking waves around their face, which was pale-skinned, with a pert little nose, and an elfin pointed chin. He got only a glimpse of supernatural-looking deep blue eyes, before they dropped to the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. As Gareth watched, mesmerised, a rosy-pink flush extended up the elegant curve of neck, spreading along ridges of cheekbones, right up to the delicate tips of two adorable-looking ears.
Gareth, having stood enchanted, drinking in the sight, abruptly remembered himself and manners, worried about his own sturdy frame banging into sylph-like slightness, resolved to apologise again and help retrieve whatever his gorgeous crash-victim had dropped.
Looking down, he noticed the notebook, which had fallen open as it landed, scattering a confetti-shower of coloured paper squares all over the floor.
Gareth stopped stock still. For a horrified moment, he thought he had exposed his illicit secret to a complete stranger.
Then he realised his spare wallet, in which he carefully kept all the poems he had collected, was still tucked in his pocket. And these Post-it notes weren’t his.
