Chloë and Harry

Chapter 6

"Do you write yourself?", he asked. He wiped the dust from the cover and looked at the image of two foetuses inside a mother's tummy.

Their hands touched, and their faces seemed peaceful and a little dreamy.

"I study law," she said and laughed loudly. "There isn't much time for doing other things, and although it is incredibly dry and uncreative, it is very interesting at the same time. The world seems to make an awful lot of sense when you understand how it works. And as frightening and as beautiful as the process of understanding might be, you sometimes need time to free yourself from paragraphs and quotes of people you have never heard from before."

The minutes slipped away as she talked.

It was like listening to someone who read a story to you. He loved how she sparkled when she talked, she stumbled over her words while her face shone brightly.

The sunlight danced over her red cheeks.

"And then you write?", he asked.

"Then, I write."

"What do you write?"

She smiled mysteriously. "I might tell you some time."

"I hope you will."

He looked at her. The dust swirled around her in the sun, her hair shone golden.

She put the book back on the stack.

"I think this is one of the most romantic things I have ever done," she said. Her fingertips followed the lines of the title. "You and me with some books."

She laughed and looked up at him.

He walked over to her and grabbed her waist. He could hear her inhaling sharply.

"I wonder what's running through your mind when you look at me like that," he said.

"How do I look at you?", she asked.

"Amazed," he replied.

"I ask myself how someone like you could be interested in spending time with someone like me," she said.

Freckles covered her nose and cheeks. He could see the plea dancing on her bottom lip, it was there, begging to be heard.

So, he pulled her up by her waist onto her tiptoes.

One hand was up in her hair, the other reached for her shoulder. She pushed him against the shelf. He could feel the wood and the back of books digging into his shoulders. He smiled before his lips met hers.

They were even softer than he imagined. She tasted sweet and different, like salty caramel – and he knew he was lost.

*

My heart pounded in my chest. My fingers clung to the wooden shelves as if they could give me the support I lacked. My knees shook, and I was relieved that he didn't realise.

He inhaled deeply as his hand wandered down to my waist.

My skin prickled, I sweated a little, and I could hear my heart beat reverberating inside my head. It was strange.

I had never felt anything like that before. I couldn't think clearly – I felt sick and happy at the same time.

My stomach turned, I got sick, but I didn't want to stop. I pulled his hair a little and reached for his neck.

The little me inside my head wouldn't stop screaming. She hysterically ran from one side of my brain to the other, waking up every possible emotion that had been asleep during the morning.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God", she ran over to wake up hysteria, who quickly decided to make me feel the extent of what was happening. I was kissing a man who was far out of my league. He was tall and handsome as hell.

While the little me inside my head was busy freaking out, hysteria took over together with her friend paranoia, who decided it would be funny to make me think of possible passers-by who could see us kissing against a bookshelf.

What if someone saw us?

What if Rachel walked by or Sophie or anyone I knew?

What if someone decided to spread any rumours about him or me, though I still didn't really know who the fuck he was?

I closed my eyes in an attempt to shut out the chaos that represented my brain in its present form.

He grabbed my hands and his lips freed from mine. The sudden cold and gentle breeze on my lips were overwhelming.

"I have to go," he said. "I need to meet with Ryan, he produces my album."

Wow, that sounded surreal.

"But I have a last book suggestion for you."

He grinned and spun around to the stack of books.

He grabbed a paperback and a leather book. I watched him reaching for a little red crayon in the pocket of his jeans.

As he scribbled an inscription onto the title page of what turned out to be "La dame aux camélias" by Alexandre Dumas, he said: "I don't read French books, because I can't speak French. I once tried it, but I it turned out to be absolutely pointless. But I read it in English and thought, you might like it."

"I didn't know you read books," I said. "At least, you didn't read the really good ones."

"Don't judge a book by its cover," he said. "This one is tragic and beautiful and sad and romantic and extraordinary."

"Why do you think I can read French?", I asked.

"Because you are far smarter than me."

He handed me the book.

I felt a strange feeling of flattered timidity welling up inside of me. Our hands touched as I grabbed the paperback.

"It was nice seeing you once again, Chloë," he threw me a smirk that made my knees buckle.

Then, he turned around and left. I stood there, between the bookshelves and watched him walk away. All of a sudden, it seemed like all of the emotions I had felt during the short time we spent in the dusty foyer of a bar, rained down upon me. I slid down the bookshelf and, with my head leaned against it, watched the sun dance over the floorboards.

I bit my lips, smiling, laughing and screaming a little. The book rested between my hands, and as I flipped the pages and smelled the old ink and the hands of all people who once read it, I saw his inscription on the title page.

THREE P.M.

DARK CHOCOLATE CAFE

I'LL PICK YOU UP.