Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Three

It’s within hours of waking I realized I’d made a terrible mistake in applying for a job. What was I thinking? I have a terrible work ethic.

In that succeeding afternoon I go back to the bookstore, planning to cancel the application. I figured I could make something up about how I’d joined a sports team or my mom admonished that I was too busy, some total lie akin to those excuses.

I drove myself over in my mother’s car, having lied that I needed to pick up a book for a class (I even had a twenty stuffed into my pocket in case she went so far as to ask to see the book I purchased). Turning up empty handed would’ve raised questions in itself.

I parked across the street for no real reason other than the unfortunate fact that a soccer mom had cut off my entrance into the bookstore parking lot.

For the first time in three trips, I actually took note of the store’s sign, which read ‘Hearse Bookstore’ in a cluttered typewriter font. At the time, the name was anything but fitting, but it grew to be the perfect name for her work, in the respect that she ended up being the closest thing to death I knew.

The bell clanged loudly, greeting me for what felt like the millionth time in the past week or so. Ironically, the one time that I wasn’t expecting her to be there, she was there.

            I had spotted her without even meaning to, my eyes instantly being drawn to the front counter where she stood, rattling her fingertips against the marbled top.

            My knees had just about given out, and I ducked behind a shelf, grabbing it for support. My palms were sweating and my heart raced. She was the only girl to ever make my body reject the notion of her mere presence.

            I took a while to regain my composure, and once that was intact I had approached her, trying to use heavy footsteps to warn her that I was there and I was coming.

            She’d looked up, and I almost fell to pieces. Instead, I was able to lean against the counter (not by choice, mind you), and calmly ask,

            “I’m here to cancel an application I sent in the other day, is there any way I could do that?”

            “I’d have to talk to my manager, but I’m sure it’s feasible,” she responded. “He’s not here right now, but he will be in about ten minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”

            “Sure,” I agreed, unable to pull together any more coherent words.

            She cocked her head, almost sizing me up with her almond eyes. “You look familiar. Have you been here before?”

            It was not very often that I was presented with a choice in the field of Emily May Kimura, so I took as much advantage as I could of my discretion. I weighed my options for what seemed like centuries, but in reality was a few seconds. I could’ve started off with a fresh start, claiming no recollection of her or the store, or I could’ve told her the truth, reminding her of my utter failure as a person when she had sold me a book.

            Why I chose the second path, I have no idea. Besides, fresh starts turn into bad blood quickly in my experience.

            “I was in here earlier this week, I bought Snow Days.”

            She stopped, trying to recollect that day. She stood quietly for what seemed like a long time, long enough to make me doubt if she remembered me at all. Eventually, she grinned, asking, “Have you started it yet?”

            “I’ve actually already read it,” I confessed. “I bought my second copy here.”

            She chuckled, raising one eyebrow and questioning, “You bought your second copy here?”

            She was still giggling as I mumbled a ‘yes’. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and knowing that I was blushing violently, tucked my head down and pretended to scratch my cheek.

            “Why would you want to own more than one?” she challenged. “I mean, the book’s good, but it’s not that good.”

            I’d shuffled my feet anxiously, toeing the base of the counter, which protruded from the carpet like a tree’s roots from soil. “I dunno, really. I…” I’m still proud of myself for having been able to make eye contact at that moment as I confided, “I needed an excuse to talk to you.”

            She pursed her lips, and that eyebrow remained uprooted as creases formed in her forehead. “You needed an excuse to talk to me?”

            Realizing how insulting my previous statement had sounded, I stammered, “N-n-no, of-of course not. It- it just came out wrong.”

            “How did you mean for it to come out?” she asked. She leaned over the counter, smiling at me.

            “You were…” I began. Ducking my head, I continued, “You were absolutely beautiful. I didn’t have the guts to tell you that.”

            “Why the sudden change of heart?” she questioned.

I shrugged as I admitted, “I’m an Aires, very stubborn.” I gazed up at her, choosing my words carefully. “I don’t change for just anyone.”

That was the smoothest thing I’d ever say to a girl. She would’ve agreed by the way she reacted. She started to blush and got all flustered, dragging her elbow back over to her side of the counter and knocking over some small display.

I corrected her mistake, piling up the pamphlets and readjusting the sign. She went to help, her hands meeting mine. Sparks didn’t fly, no electricity passed between our fingertips. That should’ve been my first clue that something wasn’t right.

The application did end up getting cancelled, and thankfully so, as I later found that a service job was completely unsuitable for my personality type. She had given me her number; she even typed it into my phone herself. As a result, she had the power to choose her own contact name. That is where the girls play up the flirting, leaving behind x’s and o’s after their name or a colon closed parentheses that somewhat resembles a smiley face. She had merely put Emily. Another bad omen lay in that contact name, what I considered at the time to be a personal preference turned out to be a general hesitance from the start of our relationship. Sure, she had loved to talk me up and twist me around her finger, but the moment I asked for any contact information is when she grew ambivalent.

Looking back, red flags had littered our relationship, so much that I’m surprised I hadn’t broken up with her before things got any worse. I had surely noticed them, the way that she’d frown at me when I said something I shouldn’t, or when I’d catch her kissing with her eyes open. I must’ve brushed them off, excited to really, actually be in love.

Or maybe just willing to pretend.