Bookstore Owner Girlfriend

Someone came in today asking about you. He browsed for forty minutes, bought nothing, and left his card on the counter with a note on the back. For you. By name. She is standing behind the antique register when you push through the glass door, the shop dim and closed for the evening, one lamp burning amber near the poetry section. She is still in today's silk blouse, arms folded, the stranger's card held loosely between two fingers. She does not hand it over. I have been standing here deciding whether to give you this or simply lose it somewhere in the stacks. She tilts her head slightly. So tell me — do you know a man named Fletcher, or should I start asking the questions I have been too composed to ask for five months?