Craving by Kristina Meister

appeared to be a military tattoo.
    Not going to ask him to put tiny marshmallows on it, I thought, it might be code for something .
    I put the book on the counter and showed him the watermark.
    “Did this book come from here?” I asked amiably enough, but as I looked up, noted the startled expression on his face. Vaguely, I wondered if it was directed at me or the fact that I couldn’t compare the watermark to the sign on the front door, but it wasn’t my fault. The place didn’t look like a bookstore.
    He jerked a thumb to the back of the shop.
    Feeling out of place, I looked around. “I’ll have . . . a . . . whatever’s most popular,” I said in an overly cheerful voice, though I could have kicked myself for being such a spaz.
    He turned away from me almost gratefully and went to work without a sound. While I looked, but didn’t look, at his gaunt face in the bar mirror, he clamped his jaw shut and refused to look back. Taking the hint, I wandered down the long bar until it curved out its end. Beyond it were several more seating nooks, the ubiquitous books, and what seemed to be a Dutch door split in half, its upper part open to another room.
    Feeling like a kid about to look through the glass of the confectionery and find out where the fudge came from, I put my hands on the tiny counter and tried to see in the low light. Volumes were piled high in stacks, some with covers and some without. Machines of unknown use lined the walls, a swatch booklet lay open on the work table, and a single silver stool glinted.
    A book bindery.
    Eva hadn’t bought the volumes there; she’d had them created out of her scraps of paper and discarded notebooks. But no one was manning the counter. I would have to come back earlier in the day.
    Distraught, I ambled back to nearest reading nook and looked over the titles. Reference books, history books, and various fictions, none of it organized, and all covers torn or well-loved. It was as if the person who ran the bindery drew a distinction between the outside world and their own books, which needed no covers to tempt them.
    I collapsed into the fluffy chair and laid the red book on the table, turned to the symbol. In the light from the green library lamp, it almost looked fresh.
    “Trishna,” a nearby man murmured.
    I only pulled myself from my own world because something in me was still capable of salivating to the bell of social obligation. I looked up, about to tell the poor man that I was not his blind date, but found a white coffee cup and saucer directly in front of my gaze. It clattered as I took it and clumsily set it down.
    “Thanks.” I reached into my bag for the wallet. “You didn’t have to bring it to me.”
    I lifted the bill up to his hand, and long, caramel-colored fingers waved it aside. I looked up to the face and instantly recognized it.
    The man from the cemetery smiled warmly. “You found me.”
    While I stared at him in shock, he sat down in the chair across from me, gracefully leaned back, and crossed his long legs.
    “You?” I said, feeling my mouth drop open.
    He nodded slowly. “The most popular.”
    I glanced at the cup. “What?”
    “Cappuccino. It’s what you ordered, yes?”
    I blinked. “So you did know her!”
    “Of course,” he said. “Though I am sure they would appreciate the sentiment, I don’t often attend the funerals of those I have not met.”
    “You . . .” I looked back at the half-door. “You bound her journals?”
    “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
    I nodded and with a shaking hand, picked the cup back up to sip, if only to do something with my mouth besides catch flies. I watched him over its rim and he looked back without a hint of discomfiture or nervousness.
    Finally, I managed to piece a few words together. “So she came here a lot?”
    “Often.”
    “How did you know about her funeral? I didn’t announce it.”
    He said nothing. After a moment or two, I realized he wasn’t planning on answering the