Paper Flyers

Chapter 5- Quinn

In the space of a day, my life had changed. I'd lost something big. But I had found something even bigger. My job. The bookshop. Winifred.

When I left the corner shop, the rain had let up and my damp box of office supplies seemed to weigh just a little bit less. My feet appeared to fall in front of each other just a little quicker than before, and now my eyes played games with the clearing sky instead of the cracks in the sidewalk.

The long walk home really turned out to not be as long as I'd thought. But maybe that was because I didn't stop thinking about Winifred the whole way.

When I reached the convenience store it was almost dark, and the bright neon of the "Open" sign glowed like a beacon. And then I was stepping inside, hearing the bell jingle overhead as the heavily postered door closed behind me. I nodded to the cashier as I crept through aisles filled with candy and potato chips. I grabbed two bars of chocolate, and seeing a stack of black marble composition books as I neared the register, picked up one of those too.

Then the last of my crumpled change moved from my pocket to the cashier's. My things were shoved in a cheap plastic bag, the kind with the words "Thank You" repeated a thousand different times in capital letters. I managed to grab it without dropping my office supplies (don't ask me how) and practically ran the rest of the way home.

I shoved my office supplies under my bed, brewed a mug of green tea, and took my new Plath books and chocolate to my favorite chair. But as I tried to lose myself in Plath's words, thoughts of Winifred tied themselves to them, and soon I wasn't so much reading as I was looking at the words, replaying images of her in my head. Maybe it was Plath, or the fact that I'd lost my job, but a great sadness pulled the corners of my mouth down and my eyebrows together and suddenly thoughts of Winifred turned to worries. Worries that she would move away. Worries that she wouldn't want to see me tomorrow, that her shop would be closed. Worries that her bookshop wouldn't make it. Worries that neither of us would. And maybe we wouldn't. But for her sake, I was sure going to try. I had an idea. And there was a chance that it would work.

The next morning I woke up early, sprawled on the couch next to my computer. Light filtered through the window, and I smiled. Winifred. I took a cold shower and threw on jeans, an old t-shirt, and beat-up sneakers. I grabbed the bag I'd filled last night and slid it onto my back. Then I found my bike. I'd missed riding.

I pushed hard off the cobblestone street. I felt the sun on my face and the early-morningness in the air and the not-being-at-work freedom. I felt more than I had in a long time. And it felt good.

I reached Reed's Reads in no time, chained my bike to a sorry looking parking meter and ran up the front steps, hardly able to contain myself. Outside the doors, I paused. I felt like I should knock, like it would be intruding to just walk in. But it was a store, after all. And I couldn't wait much longer. I shoved the door open, leaving reality and entering my own personal paradise.

The lights were still on but the shop seemed deserted. I really did feel bad, coming in unannounced like this.

"Hello?" I called, but there was no answer. I was just about to look in the used-to-be kitchen when my foot bumped up against a book on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and there was Winifred, asleep on the floor, in a fort surrounded by books. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her bright red hair closed between book covers. For a moment I just watched her, imagining that her dreams were as exciting as the surrounding stories.

Then she was awake. Groggily she sat up, bumping her head on the table above her as she saw me. For a moment it was awkward, her trying to explain herself, and me trying to make sure she was alright. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but suddenly we were both in her tiny fort, which, she explained, she had made for me. Out of poetry books. Her favorites. She made me feel like an author-signed copy of an incredible book. Like words strung together in ways that moved people. Like that book you read over and over again, because it reminds you of someone or something. She made me feel important. But I wasn't sure how to tell her that.

Instead I grabbed her hand. She had been laughing, but now she fell silent and turned towards me. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights, her bright blue eyes searching mine, checking for sincerity. I squeezed her palm gently, her thin, ink-covered fingers perfectly filling in the spaces between my own. The corners of her mouth crept up slowly, unsurely. They hit a small smile, and kept going until her entire face was lit up, the corners of her eyes crinkling like old paper. We sat there, looking at each other. And I felt like it might all be ok.

We stayed that way for a while. She read me some of her favorite poems, her voice pumping life and air into the words until they were floating above us like clouds. Then all of a sudden her stomach gave a loud growl. Her face turned fiery red with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry" she said. "I-"

I cut her off midsentence.

"Have you eaten breakfast yet?" I asked.

She shook her head and smiled shyly.

"Then by all means, we must go find the best breakfast in Seattle!" I said.

"Luckily, I know just the place. And while we're out-"

I pulled out the stack of flyers I'd spent all last night making, and Winnie's jaw dropped.

"- Reed's could use a little advertising".

Winnie looked at me like I was the hero of her own story, and I hoped I was. She was definitely mine. Her mouth opened and closed a couple times, but no words managed to pass her lips.

"I don't know what to say" the words trickled out of her mouth slowly, and I was in love with the way her voice sounded.

"Don't worry. We can talk when we get breakfast" I said smiling, trying to save her from feeling awkward.

She took the pile of fliers from my hand and stared at them. Last night I had put together a review of the shop, a couple great pictures, directions to Reed's and a few tear-away phone numbers to call to order books.

"Thank you so much. The best breakfast in Seattle, huh?" she asked.

I nodded. "You can tell me all about what you did before you were an official bookfort architect. And you'd better be hungry! "

She squeezed my hand and pulled me out of the store.

"Starving!" She yelled.

And as we raced outside, I felt like a book character, in the best sort of way.