Finding Montana

Falling Towers

I was able to write a few solid chapters at Two Cups Cafe before my butt couldn't handle sitting for very much longer. I took another cup of tea to-go and I hit the streets of downtown Whitefish. Walking down this adorable town has really help distract my mind from the life altering changes I've experienced in the past twelve hours. I've been scared to go into my new home alone when I'd be planning to live in this new house with another person. All my preparation and planning was for nothing as the one person I wanted to experience this new life with never felt the same way that I did. I wander in and out of the local boutique shops hoping to find something that'll bring me joy and help me take my mind off of Damien. I can feel tears start to pool up as I exit the fifth shop, having purchased yet another knickknack that I'll completely forget about by next week. I'm about to turn around and walk back towards that parking lot that's temporarily housing my rental car, when a sign catches my eye. Mayday Books is nestled between a a bustling Italian restaurant and a family run jewelry shop. I also missed the hidden bookstore while trying to avoid the hoards of people walking in and out of its neighbors.

The smell of old paper and imagination perfumes Mayday Books and I'm instantly transported from reality into a world of happiness and serenity. Any worry or stress that I'd had before opening the store's door melts away. The narrow shop shoots back thirty feet into the heart of the block it's positioned on, countless rows upon rows of books line the walls creating a maze of knowledge and adventure in this hole-in-the-wall shop. I eagerly walk through the forest of book, my hands grazing the spines of the stories surrounding me.

"Welcome in!" A chipper voice melodically drifts through the store. I look around for the source of the voice but the only things I can see are books and shelving. For a split second I think I'm starting to hear voices from the ungodly amount of stress I have on my plate, or that a ghost has started communicating with me and this is the start to some cliche paranormal movie where the main character is haunted by a bookworm trapped in an ancient grimoire buried under piles of Twilight fan-fiction.

"Hi?" I ask tentatively back into the void of books. I walk further into the store to find a small clearing. There is a desk positioned against the far wall, a small old fashioned cash register is precariously perched on the corner of the wooden desk, while hundreds of books cover the remaining surface tower up to the ceiling in uneven and lopsided stacks. The area around the desk is just as chaotic, and the towers of books shoot up higher than I am tall. My eye catches some movement from one of the stacks closest to the corner of the store and I watch helplessly as the pile wavers a little too much before tumbling to the ground in a giant crash. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest from the startling noise and I have to lean on a nearby bookshelf to steady myself.

"Oh shoot! Not again!" A tall woman emerges from behind the now fallen pillar of books. She adjusts her round wire frame glasses further up her narrow, crow like nose before looking up at me and sighs, "I just can't seem to get my piles to stay. This is what I get for trying to organize the incoming books." She steps over the pile of books, her long legs aiding her as she gracefully passes over the mess on the ground. She's wearing a simple and adorable light grey t-shirt dress accented perfectly with brown boots. Her red hair is balled up on the top of her head in a messy bun with small wisps of hair breaking free from her scrunchie and falling down around her face and neck.

"Let me help you with that." I offer and step towards the mountain of books scattered across the hardwood floor. I cautiously eye one of the nearby mounds of deadly knowledge as I scoop up the fallen books closest to me. The books from the heep that was knocked over are a wide variety of genres, titles, and publishing dates. There are books on the floor almsot fifty years old while anothers are brand new releases. I spy one of my books on the ground nearby and chuckle to myself as I pick it up. So this is what happens to you when you leave the publishing warehouse. I think to my book as I hand the woman the stack I just collected of the floor.