Take It to Heart

There were so many books left to sort on the trolley, I thought it would never end. And I honestly didn’t want to be at the library any longer. But, I’d arrived late to work because it slipped my mind that the closing hour for Broomhill Library was 4pm on Saturdays, instead of 5:30 like most other days. As it goes, I had to stay in after closing hours to sort the remainder of the books. Honestly, all the books I had to deal with were returned in the last thirty minutes of open hours. They were the ones the other employees just didn’t want to bother with.

The whole process of checking in a recently returned book was tedious. I had to fan the pages out and make sure no one left something stuck inside, scan the barcode, set it on a new trolley, and finally replace it on the shelves. Nothing about this job involved sitting back and actually reading the books I had to handle.

When the job counselor hag at university set me up for this, she was just raving about how good it would be. “Rose, this is right up your alley.” She had gushed the day I went in the office to apply. Her over-painted lips were cracking with her fake smile. “I’ve heard it’s an easy job. ‘Course, that’s just because the library is so slow. You’ll get to read loads. Just what a uni student wants.”

It wasn’t what I, a second year student and the University of Sheffield, wanted, it was what I needed. There was a big difference. After hearing my mum groan and complain about how much she was spending on my stepsister Naomi and me to attend, we both needed jobs quick as possible to pay for books and what have you.

When I gave the counselor my couldn’t-care-less shrug, I wish I had cared. The library was always horridly silent, sheepish looking people always wandered about, and the heater always duffed out in the winter.

I was finally down to the last few books when I picked up a ratty copy of Fight Club. Midway through fanning the pages, a slick ID card fell out and landed in my lap. I groaned, “Just what I bloody needed.”

See, most people use the nearest things as book marks. Usually, they’re smart enough to dog ear the page or slide in a chewy rapper if paper isn’t available. Still, we get some daft people who use their IDs, then forget about it. Typically, it would be no problem, except the library is closed tomorrow; meaning anything we find in books has to wait until Monday to be returned. Seeing as this is an ID, I felt horrible not getting it back to the owner.

I reached down and flipped the ID card over, meeting eyes with the owner. Oliver Sykes. “Well, Mr. Sykes, you might have a great mop of hair, but you’re a twit.”

Twenty minutes later, at half six, I finished replacing all the books and left as quickly as possible. If I spent any longer with only the owner and only myself, I would go mental in no time flat. I had the ID—which has Oliver Sykes’ address printed on the front—and a general idea of where his flat was located.

The walk was another thirty or so minutes. I didn’t mind. It was on my way home anyways. What did bug me was the fact Oliver Sykes lived in one of those buildings with the odd little intercom buttons where you have to call the tenant to gain entry. Lucky for me someone walked out as I walked in. I guess it’s true that, if you pretend like you’re supposed to be somewhere, people believe you. Whoever old man was held the door open to me and smiled kindly.

“Thank you,” I said nicely, and managed to sneak a peak at the tenant list before heading in the building. Oliver was on the sixth floor, and this was a walk up. Brilliant.

Six flights later, and I was staring at two different doors. I made a sour face, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a two pence coin; queen’s head and I would choose the right door, other side and I would knock on the left. I flipped the coin and it landed in my palm, face up.

As if it was the hardest thing in the world, I approached the door on the right and knocked only as loud as necessary. A moment later, the door was jarred open.

Standing in front of me was man who vaguely resembled his ID picture. It was obvious that it was the same person, but the small photo didn’t show any tattoos, and this bloke had loads of them. I’m talking neck-to-wrists, full. The photo didn’t give this Oliver guy any justice, either. He was slim and tall and actually quite attractive. I caught myself looking him up and down.

He dragged me away from my thoughts. “Oi, who are you? How’d you get up here?”

I was taken back. “Oh, er, I’m Rose. Uh, another tenant let me in.”

“These flats are meant to be private,” Oliver replied, as if he needed to explain his snappy attitude.

He looked like he was going to add something else, so quickly, I fished in my purse and pulled out his ID. With nervous, semi-shaky hands, I held it out to him. “I’ve actually just come ‘round to return this to you.”

His whole demeanor changed for a moment. Unsure of what I was handing him; he took the card and flipped it over, staring at his own ID. “Where’d you get this?”

“It was left in a library book. I work at Broomhill. It’s closed tomorrow, so you wouldn’t be seeing it again until like, Monday. So figured it would be alright if I just came and returned it.”

It was silent for a moment while he inspected the card. It was as if he was checking if it was in mint condition. As if it actually meant something even though he’d just left it inside of a public library book. He looked up, “Right, well thanks.”

Then, he stepped backwards and his flat door closed, and without as much as a smile, that was it. Well, isn’t he just peachy.