Not An Option

I don't know why I bought it really, a book I'd never heard of by an author I'd never read. I don't know why I bought it, but I bought it nonetheless. That was the conversation I wanted to have; a conversation I stood there rehearsing, pretending to be with some good friend, the book resting in my hand in its polythene cover as I talked him or her through this extravagant purchase. Silly really, standing outside a shop silently moving my lips and gesturing with my eyebrows, practising. I'm kidding myself of course, looking through the glass at a book of pictures I have been unable to shake from my mind since I passed by three weeks ago. Any excuse I get, any opportunity, I detour past this shop, night or day, rain or shine, I walk down this little alley and stand looking through the glass at that monochrome man. His dark eyes, looking down, off to the right, his thin skin covering his sharp cheekbones, the scattering of stubble and his thick long black hair, swept back. I stand looking at that. One day I would like to go in, ask maybe how much it cost. One day I would like that.