Paper Flyers

Chapter 12- Winnie

I woke up, and for a second I was okay. Then I remembered yesterday.

The events came back to me like a bad memory. I flinched, and flopped back into my bed, exhausted.

I had gotten very little sleep last night. Not surprisingly, though, because moments like that are when I want to write the most.

I groaned and nearly tumbled out of bed, my disheveled hair sticking to random parts of my face. My plaid pajama bottoms dragged behind me, making it look like I was shuffling instead of walking.

I trudged to the bathroom and looked at my reflection, which did not resemble me at all.

My eyes were red and puffy, half closed with exhaustion and last night's tears. My red hair looked like an orange bird's nest; big and messy and on top of my head. My skin was pale, paper than usual, and my cheeks and nose were flushed red. The normal stinging in my throat (from springtime allergies) had increased to a steady burn. I turned away and went to the main room to avoid any more crying.

I clicked the TV on, flipped a couple of channels, turned it off and walked over to the kitchen.

"I could use some chocolate chai tea right now," I muttered under my breath, and proceeded to do so, going over the memorized recipe in my head.

3/4 mug of chai tea

1/4 mug of milk

1 tablespoon of cocoa powder

2 tablespoons of sugar

1/2 teaspoon of vanilla

When I finally had the delicious drink in my hands, I was finally able to feel a twinge of happiness. As I put y tea on the counter, a familar pang of hunger was felt in my stomach.

Ramen.

Ramen was exactly what I needed.

I prepared the sodium-packed meal-in-a-cup and set it next to the tea. Next, it was time for actually getting dressed.

I grabbed a handful of makeup, yoga pants, and a swearshirt and stepped into the bathroom. The flickering light made it pretty hard to do my light brown eyeliner, but otherwise, this step was successful. So, with my ramen and tea in my hands, I strolled out the door, and down the street to Reed's

It was around 10 in the morning when I reached Reed's. Of course, there was no one waiting for me to open the store, despite how much I dreamed about the long line that stetched down the street and out of sight. But, waiting for me on the front step, was a faded red book. I stared at it curiously and put it under my ramen, allowing me to carry three objects at once.

Undoing the lock that honestly didn't need to be there, I stepped inside of the bookstore. The smell of the old books immediately filled my nose and made me grin. I made my way to the back corner of the the further room, where the poetry fort sat. I placed my meal on top and the book and began eating the ramen, completely forgetting about the myserious object that quite literally appeared on my doorstep. When the syraphoam cup was empty, I brought my chai tea and sat against the bookcase in the front room.

I sat there for a while, sipping the lukewarm drink and reading Of Mice and Men for the fourth time.

Until a pair of footsteps grew loud. Louder than they would be if they were outside.

My head jerked up, and all my dreams came true.

Standing in the threshold, and approaching me, was a customer.

She was an older woman, probably 50 or 60. She had a face that would belong to a librarian; creased with lines and crinkles and eyes framed with big, round glasses. Her greying blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ballerina bun. She wore a green sweater wih black pants and white sport sneakers. 

"Hello!" she said, her voice sweet and smooth like honey, and directed at me. "Are you the owner of this store?"

"Y-yes. I am," I said, jumping to my feet. 

"Well it's very cute. Mind if I take a look?"

"Not at all!" I rushed. This was my first chance at getting business.

The lady walked around the store, occasionally picking up a book and reading the back. I lost sight of her when she went into the kitchen, where the fiction and children's books sat, unwanted and unbought. I thought of following her, but instead I sat back down and continued reading my book. But, soon enough, the woman emerged carrying a small book in her hand.

"How much is this?" she asked, showing me a yellowed copy of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.

"All books are a dollar." I replied.

"No way! That's too cheap for such a great book!" she said and handed me a five dollar bill.

"Oh, no. I really can't accept this."

"'Course you can."

"I really-"

"Keep it. Think of it as a donation."

"Thank you so much!" I grinned. "Are you buying this book for yourself?"

"No," she replied, "Although it is a fantastic book. I'm buying it for my neice. She's seven and jus began reading chapter books, so I thought this would be a good one for her to start with."

"That's a fantastic idea."

"What's your name young lady?"

And that began our hour-long conversation. Her name was Millie. She was 53 and divorced with two kids. She moved to Seattle when her kids went to college and got a job as a health consultant. She eventually grew bored of that job and all of the crazy health-nuts and became a baker. She ran a small pastry store down the street called Sweet Treats, which was relatively successful. I told her my entire story, leaving out Quinn.

"Well, I love your store," she said as she turned to go, "I may have to come by tomorrow."

The rest of the day was unsuccessful, and as I grabbed my mug to close the shop for the night, I realized that I had completely forgotten about the book.

I carried my mug and the book back to my apartment, rinsed out the mug, and sat on the couch with the red object. The title was unreadable, so I opened up the cover. Inside was a folded note, wrapped in a silky red rbbon. I put the ribbon aside and gasped. Inside was a letter from Quinn.

Dear Winnie,

you are beautiful. and i really hope you know that. you are literally the living definition of poetry. beautiful and well-composed and interesting and you never get bored and so much history and hidden meaning. i know what i did the other day was stupid. ive never liked anyone as much as ive liked you and i dont know how to deal with it and its just so hard because i try to do the right thing but i screw everything up and i dont know what to do.

I kept reading, holding the paper in one hand and covering my mouth with the other. My eyes teared up, making the words form black blobs on the paper.

When I finished reading, I was an emotional wreck. The only thing I could think to do was to take a hot shower. I went to the bathroom and started crying as my fingers fumbled to turn on my radio, which would proceed to blast alternative rick music so loudly that the neighbors would complain. Once the radio was on and fuctioning, I stripped down and stepped into the white chamber.

I turned the glass knob, the cool and crisp air ghosting up my bare skin. Suddenly, the heat of the water was on my face, washing away all the stress of the day. I turned the knob to the hottest possible heat, which left red marks on my skin but felt amazing. But, then I had one of those epiphanies that you can only really have in the shower. As the steam rose it clouded the air, making it hard to see, but easier to breathe. Which I guess is kind of like what love does. 

It clouds your vision and common sense. But it makes it easier to keep living.