Flowers and Filthy Poetry

7. Bloody bookmarks

4 days had passed since the day I had done the thing with Francis and there was no sign of him either.

At this point I wasn't angry or upset, I found myself able to concentrate on other things like how I'd be starting a new life once university started.
I was hoping to meet all sorts of people and befriend the whole lot of them.

4 days were enough for me to toss the dried Lily into the rubbish bin and take down the entire stock of that nasty book...you know the red one.

I felt better, I was still in the cupboard of a bookshop but it felt as though I was free, without a care in the world.

I was robbed of that sense of carefreeness in seconds when I watched him casually push open the doors to the bookshop. Once he got in he ruffled his hair and his eyes landed on me.

I sat there expressionless until he spoke his next words rather carelessly, "Do you sell bookmarks."

'Do I sell bloody bookmarks?'

I know we weren't all that close but the nerve on this guy-
Not a 'hi.' Or a  'How are you doing?' or a 'sorry for ghosting you, my Nan passed.'

I glared at him, he looked behind and then back at me, pointing a finger at himself, questioning if it was really him I was directing my glare towards.

"Did I do something?" He asked in genuine curiosity, like he hadn't just let me rot for almost a week in this lonely cage.

"Where have you been?" I asked him curtly fighting the urge to break through my calm pretence.

"Here and there." He replied just as curtly with a hint of annoyance.

Call me dramatic but I wanted to cry. And here I thought he liked me.

As much as I wished to say I had closed that chapter of my summer with him, I physically and emotionally couldn't bring myself to do so.

I say 'physically' because no, I hadn't binned the Lilies he had given me, in reality I had placed their withered petals between the pages of the red book along with his top tier poems which was still under my pillow every other night.

Francis must have sensed the hurt in my eyes because he stepped a little closer, "I didn't think you wanted me here." He said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

"I don't." I said venomously, my anger getting the best of me.

His face fell at my words, an empty look in his eyes as though he was robbed of any purpose.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I must have read into this a little more than I should have." He said sincerely looking down at his worn out pair of converse.

He looked back up at me to see if I'd say anything but I had my lips pursed into a straight line fighting the urge to forgive him then and there because knowing me, I was fully capable of doing that.

When my expressions gave away no signs of hope Francis twisted the door knob to make his exit.

"Wait." I said, slapping myself inwardly for giving in so easily. He tilted his head slightly so that only a small portion of his face was visible to the eye.

The problem was, I hadn't thought this far. We stood there looking at each other while I racked my brain for an idea.

"I need help," It had come out as more of a question than anything.

He fully turned to face me his brows knit together in seriousness as he listened carefully.

"...with the restocking." I added, feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment for coming up with such a brilliant fib.

He looked me up and down, head to toe. Wondering why a somewhat brawny guy like me would need help stacking feather light books.

"I don't know which book goes where." I added to make my lie a little more believable.

"Sure. Sure. I'll do it. Yeah." He answered, nodding eagerly.

We made our way to the storage room in silence, it pained me that he wasn't being chatty but being chatty was probably inappropriate at the moment.

"My aunt phoned earlier and said she was sending in the books, not sure which genre they come under and shit." I tried explaining to him hoping he'd get the gist.

He made his was towards one of the big brown boxes, kneeling down to look into its contents.
He looked at the book, flipping through its pages and put it back in its box.

He did this to the 6 other boxes and finally stood up dusting his hands and popping his knuckles.
I looked at him hoping he'd let me in on whatever it was that he was thinking.

He took his large coat off and threw it onto one of the flowery cushioned sofas that belonged to my aunt. Without his coat he seemed like any normal 20 something year old college kid.

It was funny seeing him like this because he didn't look like the Mr. Intellect I knew, he had a baggy metal band tee on with equally baggy trousers.
His arms were properly inked with random silly tattoos, I swear I saw a Mars bar tattooed near his elbow.

Without his coat he looked smaller and it made me smile. He must have noticed because he quickly hurried out of the room, his face turning the other way.

He walked all the way over to the biography section and started stacking the books in the empty shelves he could find. I followed closely behind him unsure of whether I should have brought the other box or if I should help him with this one. I opted for the latter and began stacking up the remainder of the books.

I looked over at him every now and then but he had his eyes set on the task at hand and nothing else. I didn't have any reason to feel bad but here I was being miserable as ever.

Maybe we never were close and all those times he smiled at me were just part of the fantasies I had come up with every night while I held his crude poems close to my chest.

He hurried back into the storage room to pick up another box and I followed along like a lost puppy.
Things were awkward and I didn't know if I should break the silence. It seemed only appropriate I seal my mouth shut but being treated like this by him made me want to punch a hole through the flowery wallpaper covered walls.

As soon as I reached the room he exited it with a box not sparing me a glance. I stood in the room, watching as his figure soon disappeared behind another one of them oaky shelves. I planted myself on the ground by the sofa, staring at the ceiling as my head rested on the cushion. I tilted my head and saw something white in one of the pockets of his coat.
Straining my eyes a little more I reached out and pulled out whatever it was.

Huh, would you look at that.
Bits of paper.

They were empty. Empty bits of paper.
So now I wasn't good enough for his poems?

I held it in my hand for a second or two before I found myself ripping it apart and throwing its shreds to the ground by my feet.