Time To Go

Eleven: Kennedy

John, John, wherefore art thou, John?

I cringe openly at the memory as I shuffle to the bookcase in the far corner of the shop. I slap myself in the head at ever dreaming to throw pebbles at my princess' window. Now that is cringey of me.

I let a near invisible smile stain my lips as I begin to tidy the philosophical section.

John had been on my mind all day... all week in fact, and the mere thought of doing crazier things than climbing through his window were rocking my mind. I wanted to ride in on a stead and whisk him from his hospital bed, I wanted to pick him up and spin him around in my warm arms, cradling him as I did so.

He made me want to do these things.

He made me want to do the extraordinary.

Be the extraordinary.

I had tried to push to the back of my mind, John's condition, because to me that was all it was. It wasn't fatal, it couldn't possibly be... I push a book into its place on the shelf and my eyes fall down to my hand outstretched in front of me.

I sigh, the light scars from my breakdown at the wall visible as I shake my head. Faint lines of raised pink shimmering on top of a tanned surface. I wipe my hand down my shirt as though it would wipe it clean... get rid of the scars, the pain and the reality of my situation.

I sigh louder.

It's time I trek back to behind the till.

You ran away again, Kennedy! My thoughts plague me as I slam myself down onto my chair, hands over my face as I lick my lips beneath them. My lips feel chapped yet I can't help running my tongue over the rough skin.

It reminds me of John.

It reminds me of our kiss...

It reminds me of the fact he is a man...

A dying man.

I shake my head, rubbing my eyes and staring blindly at the clock. The time seems to have settled at half three and I am aware it will stay that way until an hour and a half later when I can leave. I have somewhere I have to be, and if it took me hours and hours of thinking of pointless explanations just to get there, then it would.

I know I will do it...

I will do it for John...

* * * * * *

I run my fingers through my hair for the last time as I pace, annoyed with myself. I pass his door and then back again more times than I wish to realize.