Back when I was a young lady, I'd write out fairy tales of how my perfect darling would be. Glorious ingredients would be added. "A heart-mender, could tell a romance like it was true." I would give a delighted smile at my masterpiece.

But soon as I grew older, I'd come back and re-write these stories as my fancies changed and went, from a good story-teller to an exceptional kisser and eventually a tender love-maker.

And the older I got the more preposterous the outcome. The more outrageous my expectations became until I finally stamped into my head that my doll would never come, I was destined to be a hag without a good lover.

That was until I turned the fresh age of eighteen. Working at the pretty little shop that sold used books, I witnessed this enchanting man browsing dusty books, a beautiful man with a sparkling suit and charming features.

He glanced at me, gingerly grinned and I apologetically continued my peering. He had lovely cheekbones, a strong nose and fair hair. I twinkled at him, beginning to drift. Oh this must be him! My brain mocked me.

He must be ideal, a wonderful and enchanting man. I sensitively called out a welcome. In my mind words sparkled like little lights. Yes, I beamed, this was him and mine.

It was soon after I began a mild fascination. Every time this man came in, my heart quivered like a flag of surrender, asking him to take me. Of course because of my tender bashful nature I never spoke openly.

Everyday my heart grew more attached and welcoming the day he'd look past the powdery dust that fogged me, that must have hidden me from him. And to one day to my utmost exhilaration he spoke.

"Do you like to work here?" he said in a dazzling New York accent.

"Oh…oh, yes." I nearly shed tears of euphoria.

"It's my favorite book store in this town. What is your name?" This was his favorite?

"Why, it's Emily." I grinned and batted my eyelashes unconsciously.

"Emily. Well thank you for these books. See you soon?"

And then my anticipation heightened. I dressed more extravagantly, festooning myself in decadent colorful dresses and wearing my chocolate colored hair spread prettily along my shoulders. I dabbed shadow and lipstick on and sprayed many puffs of cheap but excellent perfume like oxygen.

I'd exhale softly when I saw him, knowing he hadn't left me for another bookstore, I was still his girl. I knew this wasn't entirely true, just my rash imagination running far beyond the truth, escaping boundaries was the sin of love.

Everything became more beautiful and food more appetizing. I'd put on my face and dresses and wait not knowing how tattered the dresses and how hopefully foolish I seemed to the other customers, some sighed, knowing the symptoms of love terrorizing another unfortunate casualty. They mocked my bliss with severe scorn and told me I was a sluggish romantic.

But beyond them I was, in this fairy-tale land of sugary songs and gorgeous dreams. My eyes were filled with a love not mutual, not shared, not even acknowledged.