- 12 -
February 2045
Hallee
I’ve officially altered my morning routine and now arrive thirty minutes earlier to The Marmotte in avoidance of Dean. Whatever game my body has started with the butterflies and pounding pulse, I’m not here to play. It’s not logical to love only to lose. I’m doing us a favor by preventatively snuffing out any spark that could light up our world.
Sometimes I cut it too close and run to the bathroom when I see him turn the corner. The other day, I hid in there for fifteen minutes before working up the nerve to come out. He was gone, like I had hoped, but somehow his absence still stung, which triggered a thought spiral. Some thought spirals are good, but most are all-consuming anxiety about the idea of him and me.
Of him knowing me.
It’s paralyzing, the overwhelming feeling that we could be something great. Irreplaceable, even. Because we could. At least, I think we could—does he? Surely this isn’t one-sided. Two encounters in and I’ve known him for a lifetime. Not actually, because that’s impossible, but maybe?
I must be losing my mind.
When I step up to order, the barista recognizes my face but not my name. Never anyone’s name; that’s too much effort in the long run. Handing over my daily charge of $5.07, I pay to feel life pumping through my veins. I can almost hear the medical commercial . . .
Do you suffer from paralyzing anxiety? Then I have the cure for you! Band-Aid over it with a daily dose of chihuahua shakes in a cup. Best served with a side of cynicism and a splash of disassociation.
Am I addicted? Depends on who you ask.
Am I going to Coffeeholics Anonymous to change my behavior? Absolutely not.
Amused with myself, I make my way over to the pickup bar. Grab and go, that’s the new routine. No sitting, no lingering, because that would heighten the chance of running into Dean, who I’m obviously trying to avoid. I definitely don’t want to see those eyes again, at all.
Not even for a second.
Being in public already makes me so uncomfortable. It’s sad to think of losing this place too. This is precisely why relationships are embarrassingly messy. They drop in unexpectedly and suddenly you’re running away from your favorite place.
After I admire the process of the barista making my latte, she hand delivers it to me with a smile. Within a second of it touching the counter, she’s off to provide the next cup of life to Jack. I learned his name last week when he dropped his pocket watch. It’s engraved with the letter “L,” but he can’t remember why. Perhaps he used to belong to someone and carries it lovingly for a partner who knew him the best. Now, the “L” stands for “lost and waiting to be found.” Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen him leave this place—he’s hoping someone will find him.
Is anyone out there to find me?
Before ruminating on the idea, I rush out the door. Walking to work makes me feel less isolated. Strangers pass me by like pages flip in a book. What are their stories? Is life being kind to the woman walking alone? Does the man across the street stare up at the moon and ponder eternity, like I do? Do they need a smile today?
Everyone does, I suppose, so I give the best one I can to each hurried commuter. My extreme aversion to being noticed doesn’t seem to nullify my dream to change the world for the better. A mere bookseller, the ripple that will start it all. My inner critic scoffs at the delusion, but in the book series Miles recommended, the world was changed by an illiterate teenager. She’s proof—even the most unassuming can be impactful.
Every second of reading the series has felt like a small tug toward healing. Healing what parts of me? Don’t know. I can’t even remember the parts that needed it, but it’s helping me. I’m, mostly, sure of it. Can’t be too sure. It’s hard to trust your gut when you don’t know who you are.
As the store bell startles me again, Miles leans out from behind a bookshelf. “Well?!” he draws out, widening his eyes in anticipation.
These morning meetings have become one of my favorite parts of the day.
“I finished the entire thing.”
“You did not!” He gasps.
“Oh, it was so good. I can’t believe Cas—”
The bell cuts me off before I can divulge my juicy theories. It’s time to sell these amazing stories to other people.
The day slows down after lunch, so I start the newest book added to the banned book list. Selling the banned books feels like some rebellious adrenaline rush, and that’s about as strong as rebellion runs in me. Two things should be set in stone—rules and routine.
A mystical shadow casts across the most likely haunted historical fiction section. Despite the stagnant window pattern, the shadows ebb and flow in different patterns every day. Thinking about it too long gives me the creeps, so I think of other things. Happier things, like the group of friends laughing in the romance section.
What happened to my old friends? Did we laugh together too?
An elderly woman with a yellow balloon tied to her walker is in the young adult section, lingering over our new bestseller. She sparks a seed of hope in me that aging doesn’t have to imprison my spirit. Taking notice of my observing stare, she smiles kindly. As her eyes start to glisten, her voice cracks, “My body may be old, dear, but my soul is still twenty-two.”
How old is my soul?
“Cheers to staying young, adult.” I wink, and pull the book off the shelf. “This one’s on me.”
This is the first rule I’ve broken since being here. I get one free book a week because of the reward program, but it’s employee exclusive. Technically, it has to be for myself; however, this woman has a magnetic energy that calls courage out of me.
“Thank you, dear,” her aged voice answers. “I’d like to enjoy the store for a bit longer. Would you stay with me?”
Anything to feel less alone.
For the rest of my shift I follow her yellow balloon, listening to her imagination spiral into ideas far beyond anything I could think up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she remembers a lifetime of experiences with a great love. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she would be an extremely hard person to forget. But I know better. None of us are immune to the changing tides of the year.
What happens when I’m her age? Will I have anything to hold onto? Nausea shocks my system. I won’t remember what I had, but at least I’ll be clueless to what I’ve lost. Somehow the thought doesn’t medicate my growing discomfort.