Out of Harmony

“I haven't seen anyone finish that book before,” he said, putting a book back where it belonged. His voice was quiet, and it was cute because it was deep enough to sound raspy when he whispered.

“I'll be sure to do that, just so you will,” I replied, grinning up at him.

I lost my spot on the page, so I quickly tracked it down so I could hold my finger over the line. He was still standing close by, pulling book after book off the shelf before returning it back. Truthfully, I caught myself watching him do this because he was doing it in such an odd way: His eyes were shut, letting his fingers graze over the spines until, for some reason like counting to a certain number or something of the sort, he would pull it off the shelf. Only then would he open his eyes so that he could read the title.

He continued doing this ritual three more times until he found a book to his liking. By then, I was already immersed in my book.

I did notice when he sat down across the aisle from me. The shelves were close in proximity and the floor creaked and groaned when you walked across the blue carpet. He copied my posture, resting his back against the wooden shelf and stretching his legs out next to mine. He was close enough that I could reach out and touch his jeans but not enough to feel uncomfortable.

The book was dog-eared, and there was a card in the back that had dates going back to the 1970s up until computers came into play. I was almost worried that some of the yellowed pages would fall out if I was not careful enough. It smelled musty like an old book should, which made me smile when I had first opened it, relishing in the fact that I wasn't the only one to enjoy this very print of a very famous book.

We ignored each other for a while. I think he even forgot I was there—he nearly jumped out of his unbuttoned black and blue plaid button-up and white undershirt with eyes like a deer caught in headlights—until I asked what his name was.

He folded the corner of his book and set it aside before answering, “Everyone calls me Emerson.”

With that said, he grinned and reached out his hand for me to shake it.

“Well, everyone calls me Sydney,” I said, nodding once in confirmation. Actually, I don't even know why I nodded. I was so lost in those summery blue eyes and the fact that he hadn't let go of my hand.

He stood up, with his book in the hand that wasn't holding onto me, and waited until I was standing sturdily on both feet before letting go.

“I think you can finish that book. It's amazing if you get into the mindset to really study it. I hated it at first, but then I heard what Freud said about these theories and how the author was a brilliant genius. I read it again, and it all made sense.”

I nodded, blushing at the thought that I had to finish that book, if only to further understand Emerson. He wasn't adding up, you see, where he lacked in confidence, he made up in the ability to talk about one passion I truly understood: psychology.

If that one thing could be understood between us, I'd be sure to do my research like my final grade depended on it.

“That's always good to hear, Emerson,” I said, testing his name out on my tongue.