They almost have their eyes on the glass. I can hear them through the door.
‘Do you reckon this is mask-wearing territory?’
‘What do you say babe, want to go in?’
They adjust their masks and come in. She is serene and quiet and pearlescent and powerful. He is broad and outdoors. He bounces on his feet, cannot contain his energy, calls me ‘mate’, wears his mask crooked, and whistles with admiration at basically everything. He kneels down, stands up, bounces, straightens his shoulders, turns around, alive with purpose.
‘What can I get babe? I could go for this.’
He chooses Nicholas Nickleby. She already has a stack of Charles Dickens chin high. She said, ‘Mmmm.’ He said, ‘Babe, we should get out of here.’ Then to me, ‘Excuse me, what’s your oldest book here.’
He and I searched the books, looking for dates. He said:
Then he said to her, ‘We should get out of here, babe. I’m going nuts, look at all these.’
She said, ‘Mmmm.’
They come to the counter to pay for their books. I say, ‘Do you want a receipt sent to you phone?’ He does. I ask for his number.
‘Are you cracking onto me?’
I am pleased with his joke because he is young and I am not, but his partner gives a scream of laughter.
‘My God, as if anyone would crack onto you.’ She can’t stop laughing.
He tells me they want books for their library. For their caravan. And for their kids.
They both look at her stomach, just a flicker of a look, but I saw it.
Illustration by Deborah Dewitt