Stroked

-Chapter 3-

-Chapter 3-

~Amy~

I run a hand over the nearest shelf. My fingers drag across hardcovers and paperbacks. The smell of old print and new is inviting. It's very welcoming.

"Why are you in such a happy mood?" Jennifer, one of the fellow employees of the bookstore asks.

She wears the exact same uniform as me; buttoned up plaid shirt with a name tag and khaki pants and seems to make it sexy. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun.

I brush some dust off the nearby shelf to keep myself busy.

"Is it a crime to be in a happy mood?" I ask, not even sure where the sarcasm came from. Sometimes it just slips out.

Jennifer's blue eyes scan me and she leans her body up against the other shelf to the left. Her name tag hangs on by a thread above her left breast. Her voice is very calm and collected, and I keep my thoughts to myself about how she should go away and do her job.

"Nope, but it is kind of scary, for you I mean. You're never really chirpy."

I ignore her comment and hurry off to start restocking shelves or something. I rarely talk to Jennifer, so I overlook her comment for the most part. However, deep down inside I wonder if what she says is true.

I shrug to myself and head over to the entrance of the store to where the piles of new books are stacked in cardboard boxes that arrived shortly before my shift. I wonder if Jimmy helped bring them in and smile. Some bosses don't try to help out like he does, it makes you wonder.

I mean, it really does. I've always wondered how my life would change if I was the owner of a place like this, and not even a bookstore. Just somewhere I could call my own. It would be a nice change of pace, but I've got a long while and years ahead of me. I'm barely out of my bib.

People walk up and down the sidewalk from outside. Some carry shopping bags while others carry small children. I find myself enjoying the little game of 'people watch'.

"Hey, I didn't see you come in. You need a hand?" I look up and smile.

Ned.

He crosses his muscled arms over his chest and puts up one hand to stroke his overgrown, long and flowing dark hair. He makes his way over to the large table set up with the boxes. We both make it at almost the same time.

I pull up on the semi-taped flaps to a box and open it quickly. I really shouldn't stalk possible customers.

"Sure, Blondie over there surely won't." I don't even make a gesture before he nods; he understands who I'm talking about.

My hands make contact with a large book and I lift it out slowly; Les Miśerables by: Victor Hugo. I pull off the yellow sticky note attached. The sellers always write a number on a little note or paper that explains how many copies there are of each book.