Love Letters to Literature

Three

"...its almost like we were in a haunted house." Clark laughs, pouring more coffee into his scratched camping mug. He was sitting in a dark lounge at the town's local community college, half-listening to the light jazz playing in the background. The others around him, approximately four not counting the barista, were languidly huddled about and listening to him as much as he was listening to Norah Jones.

He leaned back against the tattered, over-used sofa. "It was so strange..." He found himself lost in thought, contemplating the book he left with two nights ago. He could not understand why he, a small town visiting professor, decided to buy something else from that bookstore. After Shelley realized he was just as afraid as she was, she showed him the book she was reading that gave her such a fright. Immediately Clark took the book and gave her his last ten dollar bill, much to her surprise. "Now you have one less Hitchcock to catalog," he said, and left without another word. He could faintly hear, as the door was closing behind him, "My name's not Shelley." It was followed by something else, but Clark was already to his car.

"Clark!" A flying crumpled napkin hits him in the chest, and he is brought back to Norah and scratched coffee mugs. "Man, we need your opinion. Should Mark get the flat white or the-"

"Wipe that smile off your face, this is a serious matter!" Mark exclaims, throwing yet again another crumpled napkin at the man in the sofa. It misses, and ironically bounces off into landing in Clark's coffee mug.

Smiling, Clark tosses the dripping napkin away in the trash bin. "Make that two Flat Whites."