Little Bird [-hs]

008 - crème brûlée!

NAOMI

On my way to work, strangers look hostile. Every down-turned face is shadowed in malicious deeds. Every mouth and hand is a threat. Even the old man watering his front step flower pots is surveilling me. I clutch my bag tighter to my side, hurrying along my route. I pass the bodega on the corner, its green and white awning shredded from the wind, and I turn at the pink fire hydrant that erupts from the concrete. It's a tribute to some long forgotten historic day. There's a bronze plaque next to it. In the two years I've lived in this apartment and walked this route, I've yet to stop and read it.

I slip into the crumbling bookstore, The Rabbit Hole, on my route, hoping to conjure a semblance of routine. Its door is an adorable cherry red, broken apart by sparkling window panes, some painted over with old newspaper clippings. As I enter, a little bell jingles above my head. Snaking vines of pothos hang from every hook and ledge of the bricked walls. Vinyl records are displayed proudly next to the giant front window. Shelves of books teeter to the ceiling. The store is a winding cave of stories, and the longer you stay the easier it is to get lost forever in the folds and secret coves. As soon as I cross the threshold, I'm met with the smell of a cinnamon and clove candle.

Lucas sits behind the glass counter, wearing a weathered blue baseball hat and a welcoming smile. He brightens when he sees me, his hand pressed down against the pages of an open book. I tuck a braid behind my ear. "Hi." I press my hips against the counter. He leans back on his stool.

"You ever gonna return my book, lady?" The southern accent he's grown out of wraps around the edges of his words. His face is wide and calm. He blinks and tips his head, like an owl.

I grin sheepishly. "It's long."

"World's slowest reader," he huffs. "How're you?" The question is a teasing formality, but behind his faux attitude I see the genuine care. He leans forward. His hair sticks out in thick braids from beneath his hat. His nails are painted buttery white. He's wearing a soft, thin band shirt.

"It's been a long week." A long two days actually. Just two. At this rate I'd be dead by the end of the week though.

"You sound stressed," he dogears the page of the book before him and shuts it tight. "Work?"

"There's been some interesting characters."

He shifts on his stool. "Uh oh."

"Uh oh's one way of putting it."

"Want to talk about it?" He narrows his eyes, taking in my blank face. It's a brick wall, crumbling just like the corners of this building. I shake my head, and he smiles again. Lucas has such a warm face, maybe that's the reason I came in here. He reminds me of home. "Where are you in the book?" He changes the subject for me.

"I don't read," I laugh.

He sighs. "You're gonna regret taking all this time when you get to the end. You're gonna wish you finished it in one sitting."

"I'm sure I will."

"Well, I won't keep you." He waves me off and reopens his book. He's nice about it, but I'm sure I interrupted him during an important passage. Lucas impresses me. I've always been one for poetry, short and sweet and emotionally poignant. Novels beat around the bush too much, yet he rips through one in a day. Even as kids, it was hard to keep his attention when so many books had to be read.

But I do notice, when I look back. I notice how his eyes dart to my figure half out the door, the bell jingling above me. I catch the sharp worry that cuts through me like a knife, before disappearing entirely. Before his eyes are once again engulfed by the page. I know that under his softness, Lucas is cunning. A person with so many stories under their belt can be no other way.