The Art of The Affair

26

September was a month I was glad to see go.  By the time I flipped the calendar over in the bookshop to October, a new normal had settled in.  I'd lost everyone I called family and friends, and yet - aside from the hole in my heart - the days were getting a little easier.

For the first time in ten years, I am Hermione Jean Granger again.  I rent a room from my boss, Eva, and she's taught me the basics of chess.  I've started cursing a little and I'm unable to pass by new children's shops without going inside.  I have my first tattoo, and hidden inside is a single letter by design.  I've read six books, learned about death positivity and death cultures from author Caitlin Doughty, and I'm officially a true crime junkie now, thanks to a sleepless night of binging a well-done show.

I enjoy my job and what I do, and even who I work with.  I have regulars and new customers - one of which, I suspect, is working up the courage to ask me to coffee.  I already have my answer ready.

I've gone to the theatre alone, learned to embroider some basic stitches, and to bake cookies that don't fall flat and turn crispy.  I've wandered the city at night and found myself at the door I won't knock on.  

I'm alone but I'm breathing and hoping.

Come November, the pumpkins in the window are replaced by white twinkle lights and a tree.  I can't help but imagine myself as Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail where she waxes poetically in a melancholy tone about missing her mother at Christmas, and about the aimless, uncertain future she's staring down.  

Eva has adopted me, I think, but it's more like a benevolent animal lover who finds a pathetic and lonely stray that needs to be nursed back to health.  She makes sure I'm not left alone too much, but she gives me space as well.  I'm sure I don't deserve her but I'm grateful I have her.

Her lone present sits wrapped beneath my tiny fake tree in my room atop my dresser, waiting for her to return from visiting family up north.  There is no one else for me to buy for, no one to visit, and yet my head is still above water.  This journey I find myself on was never about Draco, though he was an unexpected surprise that I'll never forget.  This journey was about finding myself and being myself.  I've hurt and been hurt to get here, but I was here.

P.S. Fertility rate goes down each year. 
1) Get own place
2) Meet stranger
3) Go mad and do the thing

I set my beautiful fountain pen down, the one someone dropped in the bookshop a few weeks ago and never claimed.  I like to use it while I'm writing in a leather-bound journal the shop carries.  It helps me process grief, loss, and some positive things too.  I've purchased a new journal with my employee discount for the new year, which starts next week.  I'll burn this one, per a suggestion I read online, and start anew.  I'm looking forward to new beginnings.

I place the emerald satin ribbon in the crevice of the pages, close it, and begin my evening straightening.  Since the two employees beneath me have friends and family and parties and get togethers, I volunteered to work extra hours through tomorrow when we close for Christmas Eve.  After tonight, I'll be alone in a big old apartment with only Eva's grumpy old cat to keep me company until she gets back.

Once the clock reads 6:55 pm, I stride across the uneven wooden floor and twist the brass lock in the door.  Over the vertical pane of glass that runs nearly the length of the wood door, I turn the OPEN sign facing outside to CLOSED.  Then I switch off all the lights except for the ones over the counter and pop open the drawer.  

I'm in no hurry tonight.  Instead of putting music on from my phone, I listen to the faint sounds of Christmas music coming from somewhere nearby as I count down the drawer.  As each coin falls, I'm both counting and drifting off someplace I shouldn't.  Wondering what everyone's doing tonight, picturing the hideous but lovingly made gifts Molly's made the Weasley clan, and thinking about my parents - who I imagine aren't invited to the Weasley dinner this year.  They're probably home alone as I will be.