I am a creature of habit. When I go to the bookshop I always veer towards the same table. Today on approaching it, I saw a folded piece of paper. After a little hesitation I opened it. Inside :
“.. leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free;
Love me no more, but love my love of thee.”
The handwriting was neat, leaning right , without flourishes or decorations. I folded it back up and left it on the table. Maybe who ever wrote it might come back for it or maybe it was waiting to be collected.
The romantic in me smiled, and hoped that the writer expressed it to their intended recipient, the cynic in me was curious of the reaction it may have received. It conjured up ideas for stories and themes of old films about unrequited love, I went to find a book of sonnets and a different table.