I sign the receipt as the cashier grabs at a plastic bag.

“I actually don’t need a sack, but thank you,” I say.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

I hand her the receipt.  She hands me my stack of two books and three DVDs.  Clearance sales at Borders are my friend and my enemy.  I turn.  My eyes lift to the door.  They meet another pair of eyes.  Dark eyes.  Nice eyes.  They belong to a tall man with chin-length, dark, wavy hair — perfectly unstyled.  My cheeks flush, and I look away.  Courage rises in my ribcage, and I look back.  His eyes are still on mine.  I smile.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

It’s me.  Of course.  I chuckle uncomfortably as everyone in the vicinity turns to look.  I hold up my DVDs as if surrendering.  I do the walk of shame back to the cash register.

“Sorry about that!” the cashier proclaims in gratingly chipper fashion, obviously unaware of the role she’s just played in the demise of what I’ve already convinced myself could have been a fabulous romance.

“No big deal,” I say.

She hands them back to me, but the damage is done.  When I turn toward the door once again, the eyes and the hair and the man to whom they belong have disappeared.  I walk out the door alone, with only an armful of fiction to comfort me.

The Truman Show