Where living begins

He'd go to the library and find an empty space, he never cared where. His favorite spot was in the silent reference section, where very few visited during the early morning hours. He'd sit down and just think, for hours he'd wander in his mind. For hours his eyes would cut into a piece of the universe, cut so deep many were afraid to cross it.
As his mind digested his thoughts, minute by minute, hour by hour, I think that may have been when I fell in love with him. His mind fascinated me. I would imagine to myself what he could possibly be thinking of, as I shelved books and tidied up the tables. At first he thought about astrophysics, until I realized I didn't know what astrophysics was. He then was studying poetry, reciting the great masters and communing with his own muse. His mind was conjuring up verse after verse of beauty and despair. There were a few days he was thinking about something noble like curing cancer, and others where it was something silly like the latest movie I had just seen.
After a few months I had imagined myself as his closet companion, and he was visiting me at work, talking with me as I shelved books and tidied up the tables. I was his lover and he would spout the most beautiful love poems from his silent lips into my unworthy ears. He would shower me with love, virtue, strength, courage and hope. I was his beacon, his heart, his one and only. I was his and that was all that mattered. In those months I learned his mind. I knew how it worked. His mind was fast; his wit lethal; his sense of humor was his strongest sense; his heart compassionate; his life exciting. It was everything I wasn't, and then some.
I wasn't the only one to notice him, some of my coworkers had seen him almost daily, and also imagined what he could possibly be thinking about. Carl had him thinking about biochemistry or cars. Joyce imagined him writing the next best-selling novel. Lauren said he was combining foods and herbs in his head, trying to come up with a world famous recipe. I all agreed with them, lying and saying I think he was thinking about rocket science or philosophy. We'd all laugh as we went back to work, not thinking anything of it. I knew he was thinking of me. It was my secret, my secret.
It was a secret that carried me though life for the next year. He would come in and find a seat. I'd watch him as I shelved books, thinking about what he was thinking. I grew strong with the knowledge that I was loved so passionately and fervently that I started to live. I was no longer just a simple librarian, I was loved. I was loved. It was a feeling that had been long forgotten by me. I had been in love, but never had I felt so much love than in those few hours of the morning as I watched a man ponder in his soul. I wanted to let him know I existed, let him know I was standing right in front of him; let him know I was real. I was alive, I was living, I was doing more than just shelving books. I was living.
One day back in November I had worked up the courage to ask him what he was thinking about. I caught him on his way out. I asked my question and he just stared at me. He eyes blank and large. Then he started to laugh, laugh at me. He pulled out a piece of paper from his coat pocket and showed it to me. It was a scrap of paper with bets placed on it. I recognized the different tracks on the list and saw the horses and the money all lined up in a row. He told me he wasn't able to watch or listen to the results; he just waited for his bookie to call him. It was in those hours of the morning that he killed time and prayed for his horses. In those wasted morning hours.
When he left I wanted to scream at him. I had started living because he was betting on some stupid horses. But I stopped myself; instead I saw that because of him I was no longer afraid to leave my recluse life, I wasn't afraid to live. I was fed up with existence and lusted for life. He gave me something so precious, so beautiful, but was never going to appreciate that.
His horses were too valuable.

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