My Bookshelf Is Crooked

Peter

Today is one of the bad days.

Peter didn't even bother to ask. He simply gathered up his jacket when I lifted the strap of my purse over my head at the end of my shift. He gave me comforting smile and then held the door of the little café open, waiting for me to leave before following dutifully behind.

I've always liked his smile. It wasn't overly enthusiastic or particularly wide. He smiled without teeth. It was small, but it felt genuine. It fit perfectly on his impish face.

The door whooshed shut behind them. Peter immediately launched into conversation, and, just like all the other days, I found the conversation beyond my interests. It didn't matter. It served as a distraction from the shadows, so I listened, without offering any response. Peter didn't seem to mind. He droned on and on animatedly, without relying on my encouragement or participation. Currently, he was extolling the virtues of some MMA wrestler and they are reliance on a type of martial arts that I could not pronounce. This, of course, tied in to his own desire to find a studio that taught the same style, as it would complement his own in ways, he assured me, other types would not.

Rather than the individual words, I tended to focus on the melodic tone of his voice as it rose and fell with the excitement in what he was sharing. On the train, I angled my body toward him, focusing on the movement of his lips rather than the leather strap I was squeezing and twisting in her hands.

In my periphery, I could almost see the shadow under the bench across from us darken.

It's not that I didn't know it was just my imagination running wild. I knew sinkholes didn't spring from shadows, that there was nothing to be afraid of on this train. I knew, but my heart and mind were at war.

Peter's tongue ran across his lips. For some reason, the movement grabbed my attention, and I noticed for the first time that they seemed dry and cracked. I automatically flipped the top of my purse open and fumbled around with the pockets until my fingers wrapped around their prize. Peter only paused the steady stream of conversation when I held the Chapstick between us.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

I nodded, feeling my cheeks turn red. I hadn't thought it through till now, only after he questioned me that it might be awkward for him.

He smiled his little genuine smile and popped the top off. "Thanks."

Cheeks burning for an entirely different reason now, I buried the returned Chapstick back in the bottom of my purse. Thankfully, the train jerked and began to slow, indicating they were arriving at my stop. Peter stood to go with me, even though he lived a few more stops down. The guilt over his sacrifice used to bother me. Now, I simply felt comforted. In a way, I suppose I counted on him being there.

The shadows always shrunk and disappeared in front of him, and I always walked one step behind.

When we reached my brother's house, Peter stood to the side so I could scoot around him and unlock the side gate. I was close enough to him now that I could see the little droplets of sweat beginning to form on his brow. Spring was giving way to summer, and the afternoons were becoming almost as hot as the beachfront. Only here, there was no wind to offset it. For the first time in a long time, I felt a twinge of guilt at allowing him to accompany me home.

I fiddle with the lock as while I contemplated the feelings in my chest. It was only when I unlocked the gate for a third time that I managed enough confidence to blurt out, "would you like to come in?" I felt my face turn redder than it had been on the train. "For a glass of water," I added quickly before my anxiety squeezed all the air from my lungs.

Peter tilted his head to the side and the corner of his mouth turned up. "I'd like that."