“No,” Jim shook his head. “Not really.” He picked up thebooks and nodded to both of them. Linda looked up from the computer, her eyes ventured over his face amoment, and for a split second he thought he saw some longingthere—not the kind of longing that belonged on a married woman’sface. “You come on back sometime.” “Yeah, we got more stuff.” Bram moved behind his wife and set asandpapery hand on her shoulder. “I might.” Jim said, not sure what he was saying until he saidit. Linda looked at him and smiled slyly, as if they shared a secret, andthen gave a wink as she looked back down at the computer. For somereason he noticed those large, looping eyelashes that again, lookedlike something out of a magazine.Jim hardly remembered walking up the driveway. <H4 ALIGN=LEFT >THE NEXT couple of weeks flew by surprisingly fast. The days moved asfast as Jim was flipping pages at the end of the Lovecraftcollection, grazing over a couple of ads for other titles publishedby the same publishing house. Some of them he had read, some hehadn’t and thought that they seemed interesting at least. The days had faded by plenty fast, but he was still trying to fightthat one image of Linda in his head, smiling at him, winking. He had gone home and sat there for hours staring at nothing with theimage stamped on his mind, and try as he might it didn’t go away. He knew that it wasn’t right, not in the least—and he tried ashard as he could to be rid of it, but it ate away at him like a ratgnawing on the wires, those little teeth chomping away until one daythey hit the wrong spot—or the right spot, depending on how youlook at it—and then it was all over. It would be the same with himif he didn’t get it under control; he knew that, it wasn’t goingto end well. </ol>
He glanced at the Bible that sat on his desk, the one that he readevery morning, and couldn’t believe that he was struggling so hardwith something so obvious. He had never been tempted like that beforein his entire life. All of the women he had been around, all of themthat he had seen, not a one had grabbed his attention like LindaCain. Maybe it was her perfection, maybe that was it, something aboutthe way her face was set as she looked at his face longingly…He just wanted to forget it, the sooner that he was able to getvictory over it the better. He had gone to church and prayed about itplenty, but it was still a nagging fact at the back of his mind thatevery now and then whispered to make sure he remembered that it wasthere. Jim had thought about going back to the sale for weeks. The day afterhe had thought about going back, but he knew that would be a badidea—it was better to avoid the whole situation until he hadhimself under control. He set the book down on the table next to him, his big easy chairpropped right by his bookcase in his office, the shelves lined withdozens of shining titles, most of which he had read, but a few hereand there that were on his “to read” list. He looked down at thebook, and wondered why he had the urge to go and buy more books. Hehad more than enough as it was--the last thing he needed to do was goand get more, but he felt that itch in the back of his mind for a newbook. He really had to focus more on his writing; his agent would bebreathing down his neck if he didn’t get a rough draft to him inthe next couple of months. Jim gave a casual glance at the computer and smiled. How long wouldhe sit at the keyboard with the cursor blinking on and off like ademented, electronic metronome and nothing would come out…not evena short story? All he did was read and think—and try not to think about LindaCain—for hours. It was about all that he could do. He looked downat his rug and figured that it needed a vacuuming, but he didn’treally feel like doing it. He felt like buying a book. </ol>
He knew where he was going to buy it. His shoes were right by the door, he was already dressed in somejeans and a T-shirt; ready to go on down the road to get anotherbook. He just wasn’t sure that he should. He wanted to, but was itin his best interest? Jim looked down at the paperback on the table again. Looked at thecomputer that hadn’t been turned on the whole day, and leaned backinto his chair one last time. <I>Why not, just a book. Nothing else. </I>He climbed out of the chair, the wooden frame of it creaked inprotest as he removed his weight from it and moved across the room,snatching his keys, wallet and knife off of the desk and started toslip them into the different pockets. <I>Just a book. </I>He walked slowly out into the very undecorated hallway and began towork his way toward the front door, glancing into each room as hewent. He had developed habit of checking rooms as he left, makingsure that he hadn’t left any unnecessary lights on since he hadseen the obscene power bill that they had sent him the month before. He crouched for just a moment over his Nikes before they werefastened to his feet and he was standing, unlocking the door,hesitation for just a moment, part of him pulling back, the otherpart pulling onward. He had to go back and face it down, he justwanted a book, and a temptation was not going to get the best of him.He slipped out the door, pulling it closed with a scraping whisper.The sun outside was bright, just like before, but the line of cloudscould be seen sneaking across the horizon, tiptoeing over rooftopstoward the bright light that was bearing down on the street Jim wasaiming for. The sun was reflecting brightly on the smooth linessurrounded by sloping, deep road. He glanced at the shoulder on the other side of the road and saw acouple of kids goofing around in the ditch. One of them, drenchedthoroughly with mud, held a stick, as if it were a sword of somekind. The other one held a trashcan lid, obviously a shield, and thelittle girl was behind both of them, watching. She couldn’t havebeen more than four, and looked somewhat bored with what was goingon. </ol>
Those kids had to live pretty close, how close he didn’t know, buthe imagined it couldn’t be but only a few houses down. He had tohave seen them before. The little girl looked familiar, and herbrother—<I>sans</I> mud—looked like one Jim had seen before. Hecouldn’t quite place their faces, though. As soon as the kid’s voices faded into the background, the rest ofthe walk was extremely silent, as if someone had shushed the entireworld around him. It was strange. Eerie. He looked around the houses on the sides and saw nobody there. It waslike everyone had suddenly decided to take an extended vacation tosome undisclosed location. The only activity on the street wasdirectly ahead of him, a group of cars parked on the side of thestreet, right where a towering white fence stood, and a sign outfront that called them forward to wade through all of the junk thathad been collected for your buying pleasure. When he got there, he saw a woman with a box under her arm, she wasdecked out denim, her hair was pulled back, and her eyes were gluedto the ground. She moved around him carefully, as if she were afraidhe was contagious, looking somewhat ashamed—like she had justwalked out of a drug deal. He continued up to the fence, and saw a lot more customers than heexpected. There had to be at least twenty people digging through thestuff, going from bin to bin, glancing, sometimes picking up andobject, scanning over it, and either setting it down carefully orthrowing it back in like it bit them. There were a fair amount of diverse people there, he didn’t knowwhere they had all come from. It looked like a bit of everyone hadcome out to find <I>something</I>. Come one, come all, they sellanything—yes, anything—that you might desire, come on down. Jim found himself nearly lost as he stared at the customers surveyingthe junk. They seemed so caught, so hypnotized, by the stuff that hewas nearly drawn into it himself—that bitter desire to startsearching the stuff for something—anything—that he could takehome. </ol>
<I>Just a book, I’m only here for a book</I>. Still that pull was there, he wasn’t sure where it came from, buthe knew that it was holding onto him like wet shirt. He looked overat the books, and felt a pull, like a strong vacuum, sucking—apulsing throb. Jim pulled his gaze away from the box, and the corners of his visionstarted to feel fuzzy, like he was about to pass out, and he closedthem for just a second, trying to pull himself back together. <I>What in the world is the matter with me?</I> He wondered. <I>I’vehaven’t ever felt this way. </I>When he opened his eyes he saw Linda Cain standing with a customer,the sleeves around her waist tied a long sleeved shirt to her like abelt and she was wearing a white T-shirt that looked to be a size toosmall for her. <I>Was that on purpose?</I> He suspected it was, and a sick feelingwashed over him again. Was this a trap of some kind? Her fresh stained-wood hair was waterfalling over her shoulders, thesides tucked back by small hairpins. On her wrist was a peculiar pinkneon bracelet. She was smiling at the customer, a man in hismid-twenties or so. Her blinks were a little slower, and she bumpedhim with her shoulder flirtatiously. She was flat-out flirting withthe man. For a moment heat rose in Jim’s ears, and he scanned her face. That longing was there. It was very present. The kind of longing thatdidn’t belong on a married woman’s face, the kind that gotattention, the kind that was addicting—the kind he had beenfighting against. She looked at the customer longingly, lustfully. <I>I’ve been played.</I> He thought, watching. <I>Just like all theothers, I’ve been played. She used herself as a sales technique. </I></ol>