THE GIRL IN THE PAPERSHOP.

A Romantic Tale for Valentine’s Day.

She arrived late for work as usual and, under the disapproving glances of old Mr. Smith, she hastily donned her overalls and retreated behind the counter to begin sorting and spreading out the daily newspapers and magazines. The morning rush started almost immediately as people dashed in to purchase papers, cigarettes, sandwiches, etc, on their way to work, and it was mid-morning before she had time to finally relax and enjoy a much-needed cup of coffee.

As she sipped her coffee and idly leafed through a copy of the latest fashion magazine, admiring the beautifully dressed models and envying their poise and deportment, she dreamed of the day when she would have enough money saved up to leave this small town and head for the bright lights of London or New York.

Her daydreams were interrupted as a young man entered the shop and hesitantly approached the counter.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a polite but bored voice.

“I’m looking for a Valentine’s Day card.” He replied.

“Over there, on the rack.” She nodded across the shop before returning to her magazine. Demi Moore was being tipped for another Oscar, she read, and Charleze Theron was the new face of Estee Lauder, while Claudia Schiffer was about to return to the catwalk in Milan with an original Christian Dior range of clothing.

She looked up impatiently as the youth once more hove in to view.

“Did you find what you want?”

“Sorry. No. I was wondering if you could help me chose?”

She laid down her magazine in some exasperation.

“Is it for a wife or a girlfriend you want the card?”

“Ah, neither” He replied, sheepishly.

“A boyfriend?” She blurted out incredulously, before suddenly developing a fit of giggling.

“Certainly not!” the indignant youth replied, his face turning a beetroot red.

“I’m sorry,” she said, while silently reproaching herself for being so insensitive. “So, who is the card for?”

“It’s for a girl.”

“I think we have established that.” She said with mock gravity. “But what sort of things might this girl be interested in?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.” He admitted.

“You mean she has never mentioned anything to you, even in passing? Don’t you find that a little odd?”

“Not really. You see, I have never actually spoken to her.”

“You are buying a Valentine Card for a girl you’ve never spoken to! Hey, you’re not one of these stalker fellows I’ve been reading about in the magazines, are you?”

“Of course not! It’s just that she is so gorgeous and so far out of my league that it would be pointless for me to approach her.”

“What a load of old rubbish!” The girl came out from behind the counter and went over and gathered up a variety of cards. “If she is that way inclined, then she probably doesn’t deserve you anyway, and you are better off without her.”

“I’d still like to send her a Valentine Card,” said the youth.

“Very well,” replied the girl, as the shop suddenly began to fill with lunchtime customers. “It’s your money. I’ve selected a few suitable cards and scribbled the prices on the back. You make the final choice, and I just hope that this apparent vision of beauty appreciates you.”

“I’ll take this one,” said the youth, hurriedly grabbing a card at random and dropping some coins on the counter before fleeing out the door.

The girl went back to serving her customers and soon forgot about the amorous young man.

………………………..

She arose the following morning, late again, and prepared to face another humdrum day in the papershop. She made coffee and came downstairs to collect the morning post. The usual assortment of bills and circulars faced her, plus one with strange handwriting. She ripped open the envelope and took out a card, remembering that it was St Valentine’s Day.

She opened the card. It was signed ‘From A Secret Admirer.’ Impatiently, she crumpled the card and threw it in the bin. What was the point in sending somebody something anonymous like that? It smacked of cowardice and insincerity.

Strange though. She had sold an identical card to that lovesick youth in the shop yesterday. She smiled as she remembered the encounter and recalled that he was really quite cute. She hoped that the object of his amour appreciated him, and suddenly felt an inexplicable pang of envy.

On impulse, she bent down and retrieved the Valentine Card from the bin and smoothed it out. She turned it over and there, in her own handwriting, plain as day, was the price as she had jotted it down yesterday!

She hoped that the young man would return to the shop today – and indeed she felt certain that he would. Otherwise she would have to go out and find him.

Carefully, she arranged the card on her dresser and gazed dreamily at it.

“Demi Moore,” she whispered, “eat your heart out.”