My Bookshelf Is Crooked

Just Another Dead Guy

I made a beeline for the cabinet with the glass cups. I was mostly certain they weren't crystal, although each of the four corners seemed to have a delicate star etched into it somehow. Just in case they were crystal, I pretty much never used them, but I wasn't going to give Peter a  paper cup reason to think I was any more odd than I came across.

The sink water quickly bubbled to the top of the short glass and I twisted the faucet knob closed. That's when I noticed the emptiness.

There's something heavy about an empty room that let's you know your alone without looking around. It's a feeling of even the very air being undisturbed. Most people find it unnerving or lonely. For me, its just a fact of living in an old, forgotten house.

I heard a faint creak from another part of the house. Peter was in the next room or further. I hadn't lost him in my hurry. The side door opened into the small kitchen.

What had caught his eye?

I wiped away the droplets from the outside of the glass before following the creaks into the library. I allowed myself only a cursory check of the bookshelf as I crossed the threshold. I wouldn't be able to concentrate until I'd verified it was how I'd left it.

Peter saved me from the awkward throat clearing that I'd planned to announce myself by spinning on his heels and holding out a hand.

"Thanks!"

He didn't seem bothered when our fingers touched as he took the glass from me. My face betrayed me again with a blush and I muttered some kind of polite response.

"So this is where you live? It's a bit different, isn't it?"

I nodded, although, to be honest, I didn't really know what was normal and what wasn't in this city. Still, it was different to me. 

Peter downed the contents of the glass in one go. I lurched to take it from him and refill it, but he raised the empty cup toward the stern portrait before I could get the words out.

"He looks a little scroogey."

The description was surprisingly accurate. For the first time since moving into the house, I looked at the old man and chuckled.

"He's a great great great uncle, I think. I don't really know the whole story..."

Peter shrugged, eliminating the need for the rest of the story. "Just another dead guy who did something, huh?"

It was another way of saying 'Who cares?' and she agreed. It didn't matter who he was, or his story. No one cared. Not even her.

"Yup."