Assortments

Sunday then Monday {short story}

I regret waking up so early. Sundays never seem to end, and the dread for the upcoming week only builds. This realisation, that tomorrow is just around the corner, sends me rushing from the comfort of my home, and in through the doors of the public library.

When they threatened to re-purpose this relic of architecture, I campaigned along with the majority of the town, as we fought for the stories and ever growing memories kept here. I never thought that they would take a group of bookworms seriously when we proposed the abandoned chapel next-door for an alternative location for their modern art gallery, but since they did, we are all grateful for our own genius and of their acceptance of the idea. 

The council's rush to push up tourism and local use of the town's leisure amenities apparently forced them into the idea that a permanent display of every abstract piece of artwork they could get their hands on, would be highly beneficial, and now that the new venture is taking place elsewhere, we couldn't be happier, and we are always appreciative for the spike in footfall.

Sunday drags on, and from 10am until 3pm I merely wander amongst the shelves of books, finishing the classics I started last week in a quiet corner. I ruminate upon the idea of picking up another great story to indulge myself in, before realising the time, and I rush to the other end of the library.

I take my seat in the circle, ready to begin discussion upon another of James Patterson's thrillers, and to debate which of his works ranks highest according to our own standards. I sit opposite new faces, querying their attendance, but push the thought away when Ellie begins discussion about the books structure.

When we come around to rank the novels we've read of Patterson's, everyone jumps to defend the Alex Cross Series or Women's Murder Club, when I interject to propose the standalone novel Now You See Her, admittedly everyone agrees, saying that the book written with Micheal Ledewidge carefully walks along the lines of plausibility and divulges the double life of a woman previously in danger. However, as the discussion becomes interesting and everyone is in full swing, debating importance of certain plot twists, one of the unfamiliar faces from opposite me speaks up:

'But doesn't it push the limits of reality too far? and being that fast paced it obviously lacks character depth. Do you really think that its his best?'

I glance at the stranger, then to Ellie, who simply raises an amused eyebrow at me, then back again.

'No.' I say.

'No?' they repeat.

'Of course its not his best work. Do you really think a well educated gal like me would fall for the predictability of it? I simply like to exploit the naivety of amateur readers.' I say truthfully with a chuckle.

He gives me a laugh himself, 'So we agree then? His Micheal Bennett series is his best work?'.

'Of course.' I say with a grin and another glance at Ellie before she wraps up this weeks meeting.

And then Monday rolls around, I slouch in my chair, paying little attention to the lecture. Someone moves into the seat beside mine, and I turn to see who it is, expecting someone to ask for my notes or to borrow my textbook, but when I scan their face I realise that its the boy who I debated with yesterday afternoon.

'I never caught your name.' he says simply.'

'Jordan' I reply with an uncharacteristic hair readjustment.

'Marcus.' He says.

We settle into silence, focusing once again on the monotony of the words splayed illegibly on the chalk board, and in realisation, I smile to myself at the fact we both had more of a clue than the English Literature students at book-club yesterday about what makes good fiction and we both take maths.

Sunday then Monday, a pattern I don't intend to disregard anymore.