Evermore: A Collection of Short Stories

3

 I didn't know what would happen when I walked into your bookstore, the blizzard outside driving me towards the heat and light that shone from the shabby-chic start-up. It was a beacon that drew me away from downtown city traffic, from the pollution and noise. The indifference of strangers with air pods and heads plugged into screens.

The bell tinkled over my head when I pushed open the door and the smell of books, both old and must and new and fresh, lured me deeper. As I moved towards the nearest shelves, tartan scarf concealing my mouth and nose, I caught the scent of a maple latte, fresh. It was pleasant. Charming. It was you. But I didn't know it yet.

I weaved past a young couple browsing your collection, snow melting on their gloves as they murmured about choosing a present. I smiled at a young boy bent down with his mother to inspect a colourful selection of picture books, their words tumbling over each other as they communicated in their innate, unlearnable way. An inexplicable bond. I nodded to an elderly man who nodded back, grinning as he made a perfunctory comment about the snow. I brushed past him, inhaling the scent of soap and mints from his skin. This place was safe. I could tell.

I pulled my hands from the pockets of my cashmere coat, rubbing them together in hopes of bringing the feeling back. I'd forgotten my gloves. My fingers were red-raw, stinging with protest against the cold that seemed to have made its way into my bones. Frozen, I turned a corner, trying to find a secluded place. Needles pricked beneath my skin. I winced. My discomfort drove me forwards, my feet moving without my instruction. I looked up. I found myself face to face with you.

You were sat behind the counter on a set of steps you'd converted into a piece of art. A dumping ground of arranged chaos. Colourful scarves and round, orange lamps were dispersed between piles of discarded novels, one of which was clutched in your hand, the cover folded back. Creases up the spine. The clutter and the disarray gave the impression of home and familiarity. Well-loved possessions finding their places out of place. You looked up from among the display and something happened. Something words cannot explain. Something moved beneath us. We both felt it, then tried to cover it, brain and heart battling between 'I feel like I've always known you' and 'you're just a stranger in a store.'

"Everything okay, Ma'am?" you said.

You closed your book and stood up. My eyes flashed t the cover. Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. Your presence was magnetic. Your body seemed to fill the entire space. Tall. Broad. Handsome. Nothing threatening about you. Your aroma was calm. Gentle. I had the urge to tell you all my secrets. Open up and let you see who I was. I checked myself. You don't know this guy. What's happening to you?

As you made your way around the counter towards me, I noticed the T-shirt you wore over tight jeans despite the cold, the sleeves rolled up to reveal acres of smooth, dark skin. There was something in your voice and your expression. In the way you moved. I trusted you. And I was terrified.

"I'm fine," I pulled down my scarf to reveal the rest of my face. "Just cold."

I showed you my hands, holding them up for your inspection. I'd removed my ring. The weight of it grew heavy in my pocket. I wondered if you could see the mark where it used to be. Where it had worn into me, day after day, year after year, a piece of me rubbed away by its presence. You cocked your head to the side.

"That looks painful."

I nodded.

You came towards me. Another move and we'd be touching. Up close, I could see the tilt of your smile. How it lit up your face. You reached towards me then stopped. Your hesitation didn't match your confidence. You tried to cover it up, but I saw. The pause. The revelation. The embarrassment. You couldn't touch me because it meant something. And now I knew. We both knew.