Of Cycles, Erosion & Gravity

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

The receipt, mouldering in my pocket, was searing a hole in my thigh. To put off making a decision, I'd deep cleaned the library to a point where my fingers couldn't feel the pleasant current of the air-conditioning. My boss, Vern, had been eyeballing me with some form of disport at the front desk during the whole process, licking her index finger with each page turn and shooting me twinkly eyes with each round I made. I'd been avoiding those twinkles my entire shift.

Panicking, I was beginning to run out of duties to complete. I swiffered the support beams running along the ceilings, dusted each shelf, vacuumed every crevice and fold, reorganized unorganized books, cleaned the windows, tested the bulb of each desk lamp, and even went so far as to wax the floor during my lunch break. My back was suffering tremendously, but I urged it to pull itself together, I was a youthful spirit, I could take some hard labor.

"Who's the lucky boy, Lyly?" Vern croaked from behind the counter, her purple, very fake nails, were wrapped suspiciously around a Nicholas Sparks novel. Her curiosity must have burst.

I pretended not to hear her for a moment, but caved when her nails began an out of tune drum beat along the counter.

"His name is Xavier."

Vern set her book down and patted the fold out chair next to her swivle-y one. A bit weary, I slumped to the seat and dropped into it, striking the floor painfully with my bum. I had to crane my next up to see Vern, so instead I resolved with staring stubbornly at the disaster for a built in shelving unit in front of me. My fingers itched to clean it.

Vern tapped my shoulder with a cold drink, and I took it. Cringing at the foul taste of what I assumed was alcohol, I set it down tentatively where I decisively wouldn't pick it up again. I didn't try to think about whether or not it was okay to stash alcohol in a public library. Either way, Vern was a sort of grandmother-ly figure to me, who rocked fiercely pigmented red lipstick and pale purple hair (she didn't take a liking to the full head of grey hair business). Once, she even came in with a weave, another time with cornrows, once with a perm, and one other with dreads. I worried over the health of her hair, but appreciated the surprise.

She smiled out the window, where rain continued to fall in rivets. "I remember when I fell in love with Richie."

"Woah, Vern, it's not like that at all." I shook my head, "His existence is ruining my whole life."

She patted my shoulder. "Don't be so dramatic Honeybun. Your little system that you have a-going needs to be meddled with."

I provided her a blank stare.

She shook her head. "It's clear you've got some mumbo jumbo crammed up in that pretty little head of yours that gets flaky--" she pinched her fingers in the air, attempting to mime what I assumed to be flakes "--around change. What's life without taking a risk, darling?"

I continued to stare at her.

"Oh don't give me that look, my purple head isn't empty. You've worked with me since before you got yourself a set of melons and a perky little ass. I know you." My face morphed into what I'm sure could pass as a healthy tomato, but Vern leaned in closer and winked. "Koketsu ni irazunba koji wo ezu."

My mouth gaped open. "You speak Japanese?" It wasn't as precise sounding coming out of Vern's mouth, but there was no denying it was the same phrase Mr. Wakahisa hollers at me every morning.

Vern snorted, "I barely speak english, pumpkin. It means, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

She leaned back into her chair and took a swig of her beer, feeling pleased with herself. She clapped her wrinkled hand on my shoulder.