She, at the back of the store,
gingerly pulling a Henry James from the shelf,
opening and closing it,
fingers testing the fold of the spine.
He, in the next aisle,
watching her over the low shelf of Westerns,
eyes following the paperback from hands to arm
to swell of white breast over red blouse.
She, three years later,
sitting out Harvard cocktail parties,
wondering when they stopped making men
like Ralph Waldo Emerson.
He, three years later,
still frequenting used bookstores,
still writing his phone number in
copies of Portrait of a Lady.