Tourmaline

Chapter Seven

I rode in silence to the bookstore, a small smile playing on my lips.

Emergencies only.

 I continued to replay the scene in my head, its visions dancing in my mind. 

Emergencies only.

There are many numbers to call first in an emergency, not one of which includes the bizarre boy who seems to magically materialize at your feet. Of course, one of the first times he met me consisted of a drunken friend and a carless me in the sketchiest part of town. That doesn't exactly scream 'smooth sailor.' 

I pulled around to the cramped gravel parking lot behind the store, fitting myself snugly between my boss' rust-orange Honda Mobilio and a foreign Lexus. I killed the engine and gathered my sprawled belongings into my Aztec shoulder bag with a grand swooping gesture.

I stepped out of the vehicle to find it at least 5 degrees colder than it was back at the house and shivered in reply, zipping up my pilled gray hoodie. Hello winter.

I trudged around to the front of the store and, summoning all my strength, threw open one of the comically old glass doors.

I was greeted by the crisp smell of books and melted candle wax. An intricate mural was splashed along a wall of the store, stretching from floor to ceiling. In it contained various famous books and art pieces, such as a few Banksy illustrations and Where The Wild Things Are, all intertwined in a melodic mess of grace and artistry, red fading to blue and yellow colliding with black.

A gravely voice called out from behind me, knocking me out of my stasis.

"Hey, Tourmaline." I turned around to face Rita, one of my few coworkers. She was in her early thirties with brunette hair swept into a constant bun and tired green eyes. She had a rather masculine face which continued to clash with her spindly, dainty fingers and liking of tight pink sweaters meant to do nothing more than display her chest.

"Hi Rita. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know. Had to call somebody to come fix the carbon monoxide detector today. Damn thing's been fucking with me all morning." 

She also had a particular knack for swearing in casual, everyday conversation.

I nodded in reply, peeling off my sweatshirt and hanging it on the brass communal coat rack beside me.

"We got some new poetry, though, so check it out."

I straightened, turning towards her. I struggled to hide my smile.

"Did we finally get some Rilke?"

"Hell yes. Knew you've been waiting, so I left a copy of one of his books in the back. By the by, you're on gift wrap today."

As though we had throngs of people visiting to get their books wrapped.

"I'm on it, boss," I told her, giving her a mock salute and slowly making my way through the narrow rows of books. Behind me came a loud, static beeping and a frustrated curse from Rita.

"Damn thing! I got you fixed!"

I reached the cozy two-person gift wrap station to see a glossy yellow copy of Letters to a Young Poet, a collection of letters written by German poet René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke to a 19-year-old officer cadet.

I set down my bag and felt the book in my hands, ran my fingers over its lettering, smelled its seemingly ancient pages.  Being a literary enthusiast in a bookstore is one of the best things that can happen to a person.