A Blanket Unwoven
Whisper
“I'm going out,” I announce to my parents.
“Be back before eleven,” my dad's voice reaches my ears just as I'm closing the door.
We finally unpacked the last box of necessities this morning. The second thing I did in a new town — the first things being getting settled down — is finding a good bookstore. Or library.
**
I'm wandering the streets, the first large ones narrowing until I reach much smaller ones. I pass by an alley. I'm about to ignore it when I see a sign.
Book 'n Café.
I pause. Should I go? Alleyways don't have good reputations. Who knows what kind of people I could meet there?
But it is the first bookstore I've found in the whole town. And it might be the only one.
I take a hesitating first step towards it, then firmly walk the rest of the way.
The crumbling bricks of the wall seem very old. I deter my attention from the bricks to look at the door. The sign reads:
Books 'n Café
Open
Monday until Sunday
8 AM to 10 PM
I push the handle down and the door croaks as it opens. A small tinkling gently resonates.
Looking around I can see only two other people. One seems to be my age, sixteen, and he has dark hair.
He squirms ever so slightly when he sees me. He's uncomfortable. It's like he wants to get as far away as possible from here. Or from me.
“Hello, would you like something to eat or drink?” a kind woman asks. I jump, I had forgotten about her. She has stunning, frizzy red hair.
“A hot chocolate, please,” I reply, briefly tearing my eyes away from him.
“I'll bring it to you when it's ready,” she says.
“Thanks.”
I wander over to the bookcases. They have signs, “Young Adult”, “Kids”, “Adult”...
The YA section pulls me over, I am a magnet. The books are steel.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see him twitch. He really doesn't look comfortable.
I finally choose a book and settle down with it.
“Here's your hot chocolate,” the frizzy-haired woman says, the warmth of her voice mixes with the steam rising above the cup.
“Thanks,” I say, looking up from my book.
I drink and read, and steal the occasional glance at him. He's also drinking something. He really doesn't look good.
He looks like he's about to jump out of his seat and run the hell out of here any second.
A whisper of a memory comes to me.
But it's like air, I can't seize it.
It flutters away, out the door, and is gone before I can remember.
“Be back before eleven,” my dad's voice reaches my ears just as I'm closing the door.
We finally unpacked the last box of necessities this morning. The second thing I did in a new town — the first things being getting settled down — is finding a good bookstore. Or library.
**
I'm wandering the streets, the first large ones narrowing until I reach much smaller ones. I pass by an alley. I'm about to ignore it when I see a sign.
Book 'n Café.
I pause. Should I go? Alleyways don't have good reputations. Who knows what kind of people I could meet there?
But it is the first bookstore I've found in the whole town. And it might be the only one.
I take a hesitating first step towards it, then firmly walk the rest of the way.
The crumbling bricks of the wall seem very old. I deter my attention from the bricks to look at the door. The sign reads:
Books 'n Café
Open
Monday until Sunday
8 AM to 10 PM
I push the handle down and the door croaks as it opens. A small tinkling gently resonates.
Looking around I can see only two other people. One seems to be my age, sixteen, and he has dark hair.
He squirms ever so slightly when he sees me. He's uncomfortable. It's like he wants to get as far away as possible from here. Or from me.
“Hello, would you like something to eat or drink?” a kind woman asks. I jump, I had forgotten about her. She has stunning, frizzy red hair.
“A hot chocolate, please,” I reply, briefly tearing my eyes away from him.
“I'll bring it to you when it's ready,” she says.
“Thanks.”
I wander over to the bookcases. They have signs, “Young Adult”, “Kids”, “Adult”...
The YA section pulls me over, I am a magnet. The books are steel.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see him twitch. He really doesn't look comfortable.
I finally choose a book and settle down with it.
“Here's your hot chocolate,” the frizzy-haired woman says, the warmth of her voice mixes with the steam rising above the cup.
“Thanks,” I say, looking up from my book.
I drink and read, and steal the occasional glance at him. He's also drinking something. He really doesn't look good.
He looks like he's about to jump out of his seat and run the hell out of here any second.
A whisper of a memory comes to me.
But it's like air, I can't seize it.
It flutters away, out the door, and is gone before I can remember.