Free A Calculated Life by Anne Charnock

each edition, number of issues incorporating minor changes, preferred editions, etc., etc. The perfect shop manager to deal with an erudite customer base.
    Entering, she saw Dave at the far end of the shop but she turned to the female assistant. “May I browse?”
    “Feel free. We have something for everyone—literature, classics, children’s and illustrated, local history, travel and topography, decorative arts, things Japanese”—exactly, Jayna thought, a Freda—“and a section on regional maps printed mostly pre-1800…”
    Dave guessed that Jayna had deliberately ignored him and he played along. “Jayna. Hi! Thought I knew the voice.”
    “Hello, Dave. I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here. Do you come here often?”
    He hid a broad smirk by looking down at his feet. For all her brains, she came out with some rubbish lines. Forcing the smile off his face, he looked up. “I bought a couple of books for Olivia from here. What about you?”
    “Just passing; thought I’d look in.” She selected a book at random, flicking the pages, settling on the imprint.
    “Don’t you love the smell of old books?” he said.
    Jayna was a blank. What was he talking about? Of course. An olfactory signal—pleasant memories. She looked at the small book in her hands then turned her back to the assistant to shield their conversation. “Let’s go to your place, Dave. How long will it take?”
    “Err…it’s five stops out from the terminus on Line 3.” This was all moving a bit fast and his eyebrows were darting. “How long have you got?”
    “I need to be back by five-thirty.”
    “Okay. That’s do-able.”
    “You leave now ahead of me and I’ll follow you in three minutes. Wait at the platform till you see me and I’ll join you on the shuttle.”
    “What’s the cloak and dagger for?”
    “I’ll explain later.”
    Slowly he returned his book to the shelf, making time to think. “You look a bit too tidy for my neighborhood. I’ll give you my top shirt when we meet up.”
    “All right. Now say ‘goodbye’ to me and go. Please.”
    He complied in a roundabout way partly for Freda’s benefit. “Look, Jayna, I’m sorry. I have to rush. Great to see you, though.” He leaned towards her—tilting his head twenty-five degrees from the vertical—moved his face towards her right cheek and placed his mouth against her skin. Simultaneously, he grasped her right upper arm and pulled her towards him; she pitched a half step forward, off balance. He pressed his mouth more firmly against her cheek. He released her. “Let’s meet up soon.” And he headed off.
    She didn’t think. She simply preserved the impression; his mouth on her face, his hand on her arm. And she held on to his smell. She waited. Waited. But no memories were triggered. Jayna couldn’t work out why she liked the smell of his hair, his skin. This was something very simple; too basic for words. Only a shadow of Dave’s touch remained. As she stared at the open book in her hands, she predicted that whenever she thought of this encounter she would always recall this little book. She flicked the pages, lifted the book, and inhaled molecules of old ink and paper. That too. She’d remember that.

    Striking southwards, she tried to conjure images of Dave’s life in the enclaves. And because the evidence of her eyes might later obliterate these imaginings, she decided to fix her mind-images—his street,his apartment, his belongings, his beehives. She could test her reality gap. But beyond the images, what else? Could she and Dave become so familiar and so totally at ease in one another’s company, if she visited him often, got to know his neighbors well enough to pass conversation, if she and Dave shopped for groceries, walked through his local park on Sunday afternoons…Could they become the very best of friends? She imagined one possible future:
he’s meeting me at the shuttle station and I’m waving, he’s walking towards me, we’re