Owen
Owen: The subtle, yet familiar scent of lignin and sandalwood politely announced that Owen had entered the Dolores Galberth Public Library through sliding glass doors.
“Good afternoon Mrs Magnolia,” he greeted just the same as he had for the last eleven years.
A frail-looking elderly woman replied, “And a good afternoon to you too, Mr Owen.” Mrs Magnolia had been gradually growing more feeble, the wrinkles that line her face have darkened with each visit, and the head lift she used to look at him has been getting increasingly more sluggish. “You know, Owen,” she said with a crooked smile made of malice.
“Oh– Mrs Magnolia, you didn’t.”
“I did!” She said widening her smile, “she’s quite lovely you know. She is my second-cousins—”
“I’ve told you not to mettle in my romantic life,” he said as if speaking to an unknowing toddler.
Mrs Magnolia sat up, once she was out of her risen chair, she was quite short. She, in fact, only was only slightly taller than his waist. “You!” she said, pointing the finger up at him, “You, have never been with a girl.”
“I promise you, when I’m finished with my PhD, I’ll start trying.”
“You said that about your master! And your bachelor’s and your high school diploma. What is going to be next? You’ll start trying once you’ve started your company?”
He smiled calmly. “I’ll start when I find the right person.”
“It was true, he hadn’t had a long-lasting relationship in his life. He found that each person he was with was either too boring or they decided they’d rather burn an old copy of Dubliners for fire-fuel than admire Joyce’s writing.
