[Izulde]

Summer is gone. I wear three layers now. And as I said before, I can never tell ages.

Thus slipped away the physical warmth of the sun - by 5:00 pm, darkness is here - and the inner warmth as I contemplated a cheerful, rousing holiday season with Nichole G.

You can't, of course, imagine that I suddenly spoke to her and engaged in lively conversation. No - one week, while munching a bacon and lettuce sandwich (I hate tomato), I overheard her telling another diner that she actually liked virtual learning, but she was still looking forward to going back in-person because Homecoming already looked to be canceled and she didn't want to miss Prom in the spring.

When that revelation hit, I pushed away my food and asked for my bill, making up an excuse about expecting a books shipment when she was surprised I didn't eat all my food - a first. The rest of the day was turning the sign to Closed, shuttering the blinds, and hugging the office bathroom in a profusion of puking in either grief or unexpected food poisoning. Prison orange does not look good on me. And even as remarkably unattractive as I am, I'm still too pretty to end up in a shower of buggery.

You might think I'd surely stop my Saturday visits then. You'd be wrong. I continued to torture myself with the impossible, though at least now I didn't feel the pressure to try and make conversation. It was strictly the business of ordering, paying with 25% tip, and cursory exchange of "Have a good day" "You too" at the register. But then, my life is so rare in beauty outside of books, I suppose I take every opportunity possible to view it when I can in real life.

And, as I would later reflect in the weeks that followed, I'd never seen her once step foot in the shop. She wasn't a reader of books anyway, and she was gone Opening Weekend of deer hunting season - replaced by a too polite, too formal kid who looked a lot like the grumpy would-be LARP kid. That's a huge, honking red flag that it wouldn't have worked out anyway.

Mattie still comes in once a week, usually chittering away about people and events that I still have no earthly idea what she's referring to. The old saw about small towns and people getting to know everything about you hasn't been true so far to my experience. Granted, I've only been here two months and it's a pandemic period, but my social life still isn't any different than what it was in the desert metropolis I left. Not that I mind terribly, mind you - the peace and quiet here is a wonderful change. Even though it's snowed twice and we've yet to reach Thanksgiving.

Earlier this week, I tried signing up for the dating sites. At least there I knew I could avoid the pokey. Only to be met with horror - they were filled with middle-aged women who took selfies like 60 year old men who comment on photos of celebrities and Instagram models like the young women will respond to their skeezy selves. For a half-minute, I pondered even messaging a few of them, just for the ego stroke of response. Men don't get those very much on dating sites - even when you carefully choose your most picturesque and winsome photos like I do. And what few aging women didn't look like those old men selfies were so filter-heavy, I automatically added 20 pounds, 35 wrinkles, and 54 faded acne scars.

So that Hallmark movie about how the big city businessman moves to a small town and meets the cute, quirky younger woman who runs a bakery? So hasn't happened. We don't even have a bakery here - just some restaurants, one very average grocery store, a drug store, a ridiculous number of gas stations per capita because a state highway runs through downtown, and a few other odds and ends.

So I was feeling pretty bummed out this morning when I came downstairs from the upstairs apartment. A thick book sat on the counter titled The Saga of House ----- ; the dash was silver duct tape concealing the house name. I opened the front cover and blinked at the blue ink, handwritten inscription that greeted me:

"Barry,

Thought you might like to read this. Just know, you're not alone. Read the first few chapters. I'll see you next week.

-H."

Judging from the letter formation and cursive style, I suspected the sender was masculine, probably at least 35 or so given the actual use of cursive. I hear they don't teach it much in schools anymore - at least not to the point where it's everyday a thing.

Looks like I've got homework? Wonder why the name is covered.