Somewhere between Union Square and the Village, I walk to the back of the bookstore I work in. I pass the foreigners, locals and cool NYU students browsing through our oh, so outré but sellable books. I used to be one of them. Now, I’m this, a bookseller.

           Once I’ve keyed in the door code, I enter a cramped room of books, boxes and the hottest stock clerk this side of the Mississippi. His name is Arden, and he’s the store’s receiver. I can only describe his skin as being pure dark chocolate. That’s how smooth and deep it is. His smile lights up the world and his temperament? Well, it’s simply alien-like in it’s composure. You wonder how he keeps so calm and productive, yet happy in New York City.

           ‘Hey, AR,’ I say as I go to fetch my name tag. Arden’s last name is Romelu. It’s like he was meant to be a heartthrob.

           ‘Hey Hayes,’ he replies in his deep,quiet voice, shining his killer smile. Why don’t American Spirits make you feel as light and high as this guy’s smile? If I’m going to pay thirteen bucks for cancer, it should at least come with a pleasant joyous goodbye wave.

           The brief interlude of sunshine ended,I’m back at my post behind the counter. There are hours when I stand here, in one spot for hours and do not move my feet. I just scan a book or books, swipe a card or finger cash, and bag. Sometimes I’m granted the respite of gift wrapping. On one occasion a guy asked me to write something in the card,because he couldn’t think of anything.

           Working the register is worse than watching paint dry, because then you can at least get high off the fumes. Here you’re required to be stone-cold sober.

           A Chelsea blonde comes to my register with a stack of ‘How to’ wedding books by Gwyneth Paltrow and some Magnolia woman, and destination bride magazines.

           ‘Big day?’ I ask her.

           ‘Yes,’ she replies emphatically.‘It’s eleven months away and I want all the bridesmaids to know exactly what is expected of them.’ I wonder if she’ll include the cyanide pill. As I enjoy a chuckle at my snide singleton remark, I think about the guy I met during my break earlier. There I was minding my own business when he appeared out of nowhere and asked me for a cigarette. I gave it to him and he insisted paying me a dollar for it. I haven’t had that kind of exchange since my wealthier days,living happily off my parent’s euro’s ‘studying’ abroad. Since I took his money like a prostitute I was obliged to talk to him. As expected the things he said were far out. First, he asked if he could cheer me up in any way. I immediately said no. Not to be deterred, he explained, ‘I only ask because you look so miserable.’ I smiled and went to sit on a step a few feet away from him. He waited, then followed me, asking again: ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to cheer you up?’ I did my best to ignore him. I looked away and didn’t reply. Weirdoes in New York always want a reaction. Give them nothing and they’ll go away. Usually. Not this guy, he just changed tact.

           ‘Listen, I can see you’re on break,but I thought I could cheer you up. You don’t look so happy.’

           And for some stupid reason, maybe because I was so far down in the shit and couldn’t find a reason not to go down further, I engaged in a conversation with a crazy man.

           ‘I really don’t look so happy do I?’I admitted.

           ‘No, you don’t.’

           I took a really long drag of my cigarette, causing me to cough a little.

           ‘Why?’ He wanted to know.

           ‘I’m broke, unemployed, single and living with my 70-year-old parents. Need I say more?’

           He laughed. Laughed and laughed.‘Sounds like you need a miracle,’ he finally said.

           ‘Yeah, that’d be grand,’ I replied, stubbing out my cigarette. ‘But we live in modern times.’

           Even after his good laugh at my pathetic circumstances, grinning from ear to ear, he kept his eyes on me. Nice brown eyes actually.

           ‘Why don’t you marry me?’

           ‘What?’ I exclaimed, perplexed beyond comprehension. I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

           ‘Well, you need something to change on that list of misery. I could be your miracle. Marry me.’

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