He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
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Book Boy sat at his usual table, as always. With almost ritualistic movements he arranged his things on the wooden table. A black book. A pen. A shiny new phone. With each item, he set the scene in case anyone happened to glance in his direction.
A creature of habit.
This time though, he didn't pick up the pen to write in the black book or open its pages to read. He just picked up his phone and scrolled through the screen. He looked like those people you see in doctor's offices, or the dentist. The ones waiting to be seen and using whatever they have to hand to occupy themselves until it's time.
It was clear he was waiting for something, and the nerves in my chest were anxious to know what. I knew that trepidation should have been tainted with fear, but instead I felt adrenaline rush in my veins. When was the last time I'd felt this engaged in the world around me? This alive and alert?
The minutes crept by, and as they did the bar started to empty. By the time I needed to start chasing people out, it was just me and Book Boy left.
Something stopped me from telling him to leave —the same part of me that deleted the video evidence of his esotericism— instead I barricaded myself behind the bar. I made sure I was in perfect view of the camera that watched over the cash counter, although I knew in the grand scheme of things being caught on camera would be a mere blip in his day if he chose to hurt me. Nonetheless, it offered me some solace.
That, and the shot of whiskey I'd downed was doing a great job of helping to numb the nervous tension.
Suddenly, Book Boy gathered up his things and made for the door. Relief bubbled in my chest but there was disappointment there too. Part of me wanted answers, to finally know. Although that part of me was probably heavily influenced by the whiskey.
I pretended to be busy as my eyes followed him across the room while he headed to the door. With every steady step he took my heart sank a little further.
Then he halted, his hand flipping the open sign to closed instead of grasping the brass handle.
My breath caught in my throat, and he turned his head towards me as if he'd heard the way my heart jumped in my chest.
"Do you mind if I stay a bit longer?" he asked, perfectly polite, as if there was still a choice. Regardless of the fact that he was standing in front of the exit. At least the only one that didn't involve manoeuvring the problematic back door.
"If you want," I replied as evenly as I could. As he walked towards me, I turned and snuck another shot of whiskey. It bolstered my bravado, so when he sat in one of the stools on the other side of the bar, and leaned against the metal counter, I didn't shrink away.
"How are you?" he asked once he'd placed his phone and book on the counter with carefully controlled movements; the same way I imagined a psychiatrist might at the beginning of a session.
