Sinking Faster

It was another day down the street at the book store. I began opening boxes, stocking the old, dusty and tattered books upon the shelves. With the dust, as well as the heat of the sun beaming into the storefront window, it made the place seem incredibly musky. It was almost hard to breathe, but it was tolerable. Tom actually stopped in for a bit, going off about missing some keys and about how he had to get back to his wife, who constantly thought that he was cheating on her when he wasn’t home on time.

“You can hold the fort down for at least two more hours, right?” Tom asked as he was heading for the door, beads of sweat running down his bald forehead.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it taken care of,” I replied, putting a book down, glancing at him.

“Okay, good. Knew I could count on you. Christine will probably be here later to pick up the next shift,” he mumbled in a hurry, already walking out. His wife must be hard on him. All I can imagine was this small, beefy man coming home to home to someone with a meat cleaver. Poor guy. That is definitely a score of proof that relationships don’t work out.

About a half an hour later, I was sorting the index cards of book titles at the desk, sighing, when an tiny old woman, of whom looked about in her late seventies came in, the bell chiming at her entrance. She wore a flower print hat, scurrying up toward me with her cane in one hand, and a black book (which was frayed at the edges) in the other.

“Hello. Can I help you with anything?” I smiled at her, attempting to seem friendly enough to her liking.

“Hello,” she replied in an annoyed tone, dropping the book onto the counter, which caused a freckle of dust to rise. “I want to get rid of this.” She looked up at me, her face clad with wrinkles, her eyes appearing tiny on her face.

I opened the book, which was about notebook sized, and flipped the old, rust-colored pages. This wasn’t a book at all; in fact, it was a journal, made up of various notes and photographs. I cleared my throat. “I don’t think we can accept this. You see, we only sell used books here, not journals. This wouldn’t sell well,” I stated in a polite tone, pushing it toward her.

She huffed, crossing her arms, staring me down through her tiny blue eyes. “Well, I don’t care. I just want to get rid of it. How much can I get for it?”

“Miss, what I’m saying is that you won’t get anything for it. This is a journal. It isn’t a book. It won’t sell.” I opened the book, showing her. “You can try somewhere else.”

“Listen, punk. I don’t want it anymore, okay?” She exclaimed, thrashing her purse on the countertop, moving forward, her face an inch away from mine.

“But the thing is-”

Interrupting me, she snapped. “I came all the way over here in my stumbling glory. I just want to get rid of this.” She then looked at the ground, moving away from me, quietly whispering, “I need to.”

I could almost see tiny droplets of saltwater rolling along her cheeks. I picked up the book, knowing I couldn’t change her mind without another brash incident from her, and because I did feel a small amount of pity for her.

“Okay,” I piped up cheerfully, sending her a small smile. “I’ll take it. I’m not supposed to, but I can make this an exception.”

She glanced back at me, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Thank you.” She replied meekly, grabbing my hand. “I appreciate it.” She then grabbed her purse, tottering away on her cane, the bell ringing as she walked out.

I ran a hand over my hair and shrugged. This was so frustrating. Sighing, I picked up the book, its binding creaking, stiff, as I opened it. I scanned through the pages, observing everything that was entwined in its pages. All of the photographs looked worn, taken in what looked like the early forties. The first few pages displayed pictures of a couple, probably in their teens. I narrowed my eyes at one in particular. It was of a girl and a boy sitting in a meadow full of grass, a picnic basket in front of them. The girl was laughing, her head resting on the boy’s lap, him playing with her hair, a wide smile planted on his face. I flipped over a few more pages and found another photo dated “1955 - Our Wedding”. It showed the same couple, a little older, in which a groom stood behind the bride, holding her waist, smiling at someone. The bride wore an astonishing expression, not looking at the camera, but probably beyond it.

Next to it, there was another photo of the two; cake was smeared upon both of their faces, both smiling excitedly.

Turning the next page, the same couple, again, looking a bit older, stood in front of a Christmas tree.
They both lie on the floor, a pile of toys clattered around them, playing with a tiny child, their expressions still joyful. It was endearing, the child playing with wooden blocks, laughing.

I turned the worn pages of the book again, flipping to the last page. It was of a man on a hospital bed in a gown, a mask of tubes on his face, sleeping. The caption on the bottom read, “2008 - May he rest in peace”.

I closed the book, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed. I guess I could understand her need to get rid of the book, as it contained most of the memories of her lifetime, which she had been trying to forget. But why couldn’t she have just thrown it out? Wouldn’t that have been easier? Was she expecting someone to read it?

That was another thing that made me wonder about love. It really did exist, obviously, and a lot of good could come out of it. But was it a risk worth taking if the ending turned sour? It seemed like a waste of time for me. Take this lady for example. Sure, she had a good life with this man, but would she have guessed that she’d have to watch him die? To me, that’s painful. It would be too heavy of a weight to deal with, which was why I felt so overcome with emotion right now.

I wasn’t accustomed to any of this, nor did I want to be. It would be too hard to deal with, and I couldn’t muster up any reasons as to why one should deal with that kind of drama, to get themselves involved into something so deep, only to be left with nothing. Was that fair? I didn’t think so.

Call me a bitter fool, but that’s just how I felt about it. I looked up at the clock, ticking away, and realized that it was almost time for my shift to end. I put the remaining pile of cards away, then grabbing my phone, slipping it into the pocket of my jeans. I took the keys off the hook on the wall and made my way to the door, and locking it, only for someone to unlock it again, in which the cycle would repeat itself.