King Marco's English

*E, I hope for NaBloPoMo's sake (but more so for my own) this isn't cheating. I've had requests to post this, so I hope it counts!

I just got home from the King's English. Bless the soul who opened that place. Bless, bless, bless! The bookstore looked too inviting on a cold fall night. I got out of my car and walked along 1500 east, the snow gently falling on my eyelashes. It was as if I had been encircled about in a snow globe. You know, the big snow globes; the kind that light up and play music; with the quaint holiday street shop scenes, people hustling through the falling snow, shopping about, the chefs in the Italian restaurant throwing scraps to stray dogs scratching at the back door...

I walked up the lantern-lit path and through the glass doors ready for looking. I went in for one thing, and came out with three, as well as seven minutes or so full of awkward compliments from a 30-something typical King's English male employee. Gay? I wasn't sure at first. ("Not that there's anything wrong with that.") He liked my glasses. That didn't necessarily answer my question. I smiled and accepted his compliment. Next comment, aimed at me, and the woman ringing up my books (Count them three, not one) at the counter, "There is something about women in glasses. The way they frame the female face..." At which point, I'm thinking gay (especially since he mentioned us as a separate gender) as I noticed his purple-shirt-purple-tie combo. I started to solicit The Powers That Be that he'd stop (oh please!) staring at me. No one seemed to answer and I felt the awkward gaze continue, "Every woman I have been in a relationship with has worn glasses." Bingo. Mystery solved.

"An art-aficionado, huh?" (He's still gabbing and, at that point had crossed the line into my personal space, peering over at my purchases, leaving me four-eyed and uneasy). "Yeah, well, I like to try to be," I muttered under my breath as I filled out my "frequent reader" form and handed my debit card to the cashier, praying she'd interject. "Then you're in the wrong city, my lady." (Do you have a picture conjured up in your head of what this guy is like, because you should! The kind of guy that says, "My lady." Who says that?!) "Uh, yeah. I know. I've got a great job here and I love the neighborhood. And there's always travel." Oh shoot. I should have stopped. I signed my receipt and repositioned my glasses with my index finger. Once my hand was free, Mr. King's English/Self-proclaimed Glasses-Guru extended his. "Marco. And you are?" his head leaning over the counter, ear taking lead, protruding ever so slightly to hear my name. "Martha." "Did he really just say Marco?" Funny that "Martha" means "lady." I wouldn't have been surprised if he offered such information on his own, along with his other tidbits....More smooth-talk a la Marco. And yes, it was indeed Marco. "With those glasses, My Lady, New York is calling your name!"

I told him that yes, New York is most definitely an artist's/designer's heaven. You can't beat the sites and sounds and food...something about my favorite restaurant in Little Italy. His eyes lit up and suddenly resembled the shade of his shirt as soon as my mouth formed the words "Little Italy." Thank heaven I couldn't remember the name of that great authentic Italian restaurant, or else he would have drilled me on the menu! "I much prefer Boston." I went on, hoping that would end all talk of the Big Apple. "Why?" was his inquiry. Uh...Same East Coast feel, but with a little more space to stretch. I love the bridges and the River, not to mention the history. I didn't even get into the Berkshires or Nantucket. I can only imagine. Dodged a bullet. No, not me. HE dodged a bullet on that one! If Boston is the topic, Nantucket and or The Cape is usually word vomit, but I somehow managed not to toss my cookies, so to speak, all over the Purple Pupil-Eater.

I had hoped that he wasn't an expert on Boston like he seemed to be on New York. "Oh, so it sounds like we have an East Coast Buff on our hands." My reply, in all honesty: "Who, me?!" The PPE: "I have friends from Boston College who just went National with their first album. And another friend who lives right outside of Cambridge. An artist, actually..." Trailing...Trailing...Trail...

Suddenly my thoughts weren't floating down the Hudson or the Charles. In fact, I wasn't quite sure where they were. So much for looking over those drawings for the Morgans or starting "The Architecture of Happiness" tonight. Then, silence and the sudden realization that I was back on 15th east talking with Big M. "No, not really a 'buff.' I just love the East Coast." There had to be people behind me. Wasn't it book club tonight or something? Not a soul.

The cashier seemed more than content to let the two of us gab the night away. She was in no hurry to get me back out into the falling snow, which had now blanketed the lantern-lit bookstore path. And, to add my purple plight, they were out of bags. I wasn't about to carry my three new art books through the snow to my car. So, the kind female left me flying solo with Mr. Marco. He continued, "And how do we know these cities so well, Miss Martha?" Speaking of word vomit, I wanted to say, "Look, pal. I wear contacts every day. I just happened to dry up my last pair the other night. I'ts just my luck that my doc is out of the office on Mondays and Wednesdays and can't refill my prescription. And, had I known I was a) going to be out in the snow today, or b) stuck talking to you, I would have forgone the glasses all together!" But, the kind person in me, well, what was left of her at least, responded. Something about how much I love architecture, my uncle and aunt right outside Boston, my uncle's book on the Charles...a cousin just outside Little Italy in SoHo...one in Manhattan... blah...blah...blah...

"Well, you'll have to come in sometime and tell me the name of that restaurant in Little Italy. It's shrinking by the day." The news made me sad. Not sad enough to stay, but I bet my face bore expression of the disheartening news. I snatched up my art books from Miss My-Lips-are-Sealed-Eat-Your-Heart-Out-Marco at the cash register and turned toward the door as Marco got in one last line, "It's not every day that I get to chat with a smart beautiful woman." I hid my face and gagged. Then, I turned towards him and politely smiled. I cranked the handle and let the glass door swing shut as the warm air filtered out.

I tip-toed through the snow (I was in boots and there was no way I was going to let myself slip, or worse, let my books come right along with me) and I literally laughed out loud. One of those did-that-really-just-happen? laughs. Pleasant, but unbelievable at the same time. I got in my car and drove off, excited to delve into the new additions to my library, leaving fresh tire marks behind me.