Burgundy || HS

un

After countless days of seemingly unjustified hatred, Jane Bradley became the apple of Harry Styles’ eye. His muse, his inspiration. It didn’t start that way, though.

October 23rd offered a cold morning along with light snow and thick fog. Jane Bradley stared ahead at the blank computer screen in search of an error, something that she could fix because someone else couldn’t do it. And, with panic etched into her face, she found it. A late library book, over three dollars owed. She made a mental note to call the criminal and bombard them with rudely polite questions as to why their book was not returned and urge that it would need to be paid for before the year was up.

Eighteen hours had passed. Eighteen hours of no sleep, constant wondering, and lack of tears. Yet, the snow, fog, and eighteen hours had yet to settle into Jane’s coldly pale skin. Jane Bradley wasn’t a forgetful person, but she solemnly wished she could forget the day she laid eyes on a strange man with slightly curly hair after those gruesome eighteen hours. He walked into the adult section of the library immediately, as if he knew what he was looking for. Jane’s eyes refused to peel off of her book, and the man paid no mind to her.

He sat at a square table all alone. The aura of the library seemed to change, Jane could feel it, and it wasn’t because she was working that day. The bun held together by pencils in her hair seemed to slightly slant to the right, so she fixed it. The papers on the desk seemed crooked, so she straightened them. Even the temperature of the children’s section seemed off, but she knew she didn’t have control over the internal temperature of the library.

Looks like a sad and flawed florilegium, but attitude like an angry adonis wishing death upon anything that breathed. He looked upset. Highly upset and the book he chose was as dark as his expression; Die With Me. A novel of a desperate ghost looking for closure, searching for his cause of death while also looking for his family and their mood after his death. After finding that he was murdered, he finds a battered girl and drags her to aid him in finding his killer and his family.

The book was a hit. New York Times deemed it one of the most insightful and inspirational books of the decade while others claimed that the book hit too hard on the idea of women not being able to do anything; weakness being the woman, not the woman being weak. Jane has read the book and highlighted every time she read that the woman wasn’t doing anything right, nor was she helping. Nearly every page was highlighted in a deep orange color. And although Jane hates to ruin books, it seemed her highlighting didn’t make a difference because with the lack of female strength, the book was ruined anyway.

Jane didn’t look at the man once she noticed what book he was reading, and retreated to the back of the library to check on Mrs. Johnson. A woman that wouldn’t allow the old age to break her. She forgot Jane at times, but remembered her story and how to stock books and what was going to happen if she forgot—the loss of the only thing she could hold down. Although it seemed that Mrs. Johnson was ready to let go with old age, she continued with the job that she didn’t need.

The eighteen hours were only noticeable when Jane appeared in front of Mrs. Johnson. The old woman sat up from her crouched position while looking at the movies. “I finished stocking twenty minutes ago,” Jane crouched next to the woman with her pointer finger at The Notebook. “My grandbabies are coming over tonight and I need a movie.”

Jane’s eyebrows raised. “Well, for one, that’s not a child appropriate movie. Maybe a different selection would be wise.”

“Oh, Janie dear, the movie isn’t for them. It’s for me when they get on my nerves.” A slow wind of a laugh burst in the woman like a firework. Beautiful, like her. Jane nodded and soon realized that the longer she stood there, the longer Mrs. Johnson had to take in her features. “Janie, what’s wrong? You look like you haven’t slept in ages.” The brunette shook her head and gave Mrs. Johnson a tight smile. “Don’t pull that on me. I’m old and tired, but I’m not slow, Jane.”