Simone #2
Simone tended to spend her Sundays in silence, except at noon.
As she entered New Beacon Books, Clyde, the Black sixty-seven-year-old owner, looked up from behind the register, then at the clock, before greeting Simone with a smile. “Twelve o’clock,” he said. “Right on the dot.”
“I’m a creature of habit.” She hoped the predictability of her arrival hinted at efficiency and a rigid schedule that couldn’t withstand a single detour, rather than anything sadder.
She’d wandered over to the center table when Clyde asked over his shoulder, “How are the future minds of tomorrow?”
Simone flinched slightly (despite this question being as predictable as her twelve o’clock arrival), and once again silently wished Clyde wouldn’t refer to her students the same way her father did…
used to… maybe still does? Simone didn’t know whether her name was ever brought up at home, and therefore didn’t know what tense to choose.
She eventually loosened her shoulders and said, “They’re fine. As fine as the life of a five-to-six-year-old can be.”
Clyde nodded and wordlessly handed her the three books that had been piled beside him. Simone took them and flipped to read the back of each one. “I don’t remember a thing from my Year One classes,” Clyde said, “but it must have been a wonderfully simple time.”
“You only say that because of hindsight,” Simone said, silently reading the blurb of the third book. “But to them, Year One is the hardest thing they’ve ever done. I like the sound of these two, but not this one.” She handed the third book back to Clyde and he replaced it on the shelf.
This was Simone and Clyde’s routine. Every Sunday, at twelve o’clock, without fail, Simone walked in empty-handed and left fifteen to twenty minutes later with at least one new book.
It all started when she’d moved to the area and stumbled across the small independent bookshop.
Clyde was, in general, very friendly and chatty, but after decades of bookselling, he’d developed an invaluable knack for discerning who appreciated this manner and who did not.
When he first met Simone, he recognized her as a new face in the area.
But when she remained relatively nonverbal, only saying, “I’m just looking for something to read, anything to take my mind off…
” he’d heard the desperation in her words and ceased all conversation.
A few minutes later he presented her with three books.
“I can tell you about them,” he’d said to her, “or you can read the back and let me know if you want more information.” Simone didn’t.
She made up her own mind and bought two of them.
He processed the transaction and handed her the bag.
Before leaving the shop, Simone had turned around and said, “Thank you,” departing before he could return a similar sentiment.
Clyde had grown fond of Simone, undeterred by her unyielding nature and cool exterior, which he believed to be a facade—the reason for it remained unknown—because she was more personable once thawed.
“Did you enjoy Esther’s event yesterday?” Clyde asked.
“Yes,” Simone said. “Thank you for letting me know about it; she was just as engaging and articulate as her book. I met someone there too,” she added. “We attended the same school, once upon a time.”
Clyde raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Oh, a friend?”
Simone shook her head. “Not at all. I’d never spoken to her before. She’s an author now—Remy Baidoo.”
“Ah, she wrote These Four Friends ?” Clyde said. “You know her?”
“Again—hardly. But you do? It was your kind of book?”
“All books are my kind of book,” he said.
“We hosted the launch of her paperback here.” Clyde chuckled, vividly remembering the three women who accompanied Remington-but-please-call-me-Remy, and sat in the front row, applauding the loudest and refusing to allow anyone who hadn’t entered with a copy to leave without one.
“I told you about it,” Clyde said, “but you had plans, said it wasn’t really your sort of story.
I told you off for being a literary snob. ”
Simone nodded. “Yes, that does sound familiar. I couldn’t attend because of work commitments.”
“At seven in the evening?”
Simone picked up a book she had no interest in.
“Parents’ evening,” she lied to its cover.
Simone once briefly wondered how Clyde would react if she ever divulged the nature of her second job, but she’d quickly decided that, considering he was still a man from an older, less forgiving generation, the odds were against her.
“I did buy it in paperback,” Simone continued. “I only started reading it last night, but I’m enjoying it so far. I’ve read so many books, but this is the only time I can say I somewhat know the author.”
“Many literary lovers would envy that,” Clyde said. “How was the reunion, anyhow?”
“I spilled wine on her top and she wouldn’t let me reimburse her. Then she asked if I’d like to have dinner and I said no.”
Clyde frowned. “Why did you do that?”
“What would we talk about?”
“Books?” Clyde suggested, waving the one in his hand.
“Only?”
“You and I manage fine doing the same.”
Simone smiled and it took Clyde by surprise. He’d received small smiles from her here and there, delivered out of politeness rather than genuine intention, but when Simone allowed her smile to reach her eyes, he was reminded that she was a truly beautiful woman.
Simone couldn’t explain why she was happy to be considered a friend by a gay sixty-seven-year-old Black man who she spoke to once a week. But her smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “I shouldn’t have any friends.”
“Shouldn’t, did you say?”
Simone shook her head. “I don’t need any.”
“Don’t you?”
She shrugged and looked away. Clyde did not understand that while Simone struggled to make friends when she was younger, she’d also never felt the need to, with Jenni by her side.
Her little sister made it impossible to feel as if she were missing something.
Afterward, Simone was confronted with the harsh reality that is making friends as an adult, and she quickly concluded that it was an impossible task.
She blamed social media and dating apps; both had made people hypercritical.
Simone knew this was true because she was said people, easily turned off by the slightest of things.
While in primary school one could find an ally simply by offering your class neighbor your blueberry-scented glitter pen for the lesson, the same could not be said for making a friend today.
Simone did not want to go through the embarrassing hassle of offering a hand of friendship to then eventually share that she was a sex worker.
For one, she would have to keep that job a secret until she felt comfortable enough with this prospective friend before telling them the truth, and who could say how long that would take?
Simone was aware that getting to know her was like waiting for an ice cube to melt in the middle of Antarctica—pre–global warming.
And after years of secret-keeping with her family (and the fashion of its eventual reveal) Simone was not tempted to repeat the process.
She knew a lot of people her age claimed to be progressive enough, but that was only because cancel culture had trained them on how to be polite, or at the very least, how not to go viral on the wrong side of the internet.
She didn’t blame them, though. Simone had many judgmental bones in her body, after all.
To name only a few: She judged those who judged her.
She judged those who let the opinions of others define who they were.
She judged those who didn’t take parental responsibility seriously enough, especially when she had to witness the lingering effects stick to the children who walked into her classroom each morning.
However, she would never confess this out loud, so how could she expect others to be any different, to not tell her one thing while thinking another? No. It was far easier to avoid the mental gymnastics and the attempted mind reading of social interaction—such were the perks of solitude.
Simone thought again of Remy. She also thought of not having to stand alone during theater intervals. She thought of tables instead of counter seating in restaurants. She thought simply of less silence.
“Maybe…” Simone tried. “It could be nice to…” She cradled her two new books to her chest. “I should go,” she decided, heading for the door. “Goodbye, Clyde.”
Clyde masked his hopeful expression and nodded. “See you next week?”
“Of course.”