Status: back in action
Town Limits
Shiva
It’s raining. Which is cliche as hell, considering my situation.
I sit in the public library, nestled on one of the cushioned window seats. During my childhood, I was never one to read for leisure. Words on a page have never appealed to me like motion pictures on a screen do. I would’ve gone to the movie theatre, but that costs money.
A few droplets of rain splatter against the glass. I stare at the trails they leave on the window’s surface, trying to find a pattern within the trickles, counting the seconds between each new drip.
Being in the house is unsettling. Months ago, when the tiny bungalow was blanketed in silence I’d feel safe, but now I just feel vulnerable. But even so, I’m even more discomfited when the radio is blaring or when Linda Swan, the anchor of the local six o’clock news, is speaking to me. Obnoxious noise is such a blatant coverup. After lounging around the bungalow for a few days, with my racing thoughts as my only company, I decided it’d be the best for my sanity to spend the least amount of time there as possible.
I’m comforted by my attempts to convince myself that the house isn’t empty. However, there’s a bubble growing in my chest. It’s made of either hysterical laughter or hysterical tears and I’d like to let it burst just to find out which of the two it is. I’m constantly torn between not letting myself feel and wondering what it would feel like if I did.
I scoff, annoyed at myself for feeling like a sappy character in the middle of an independently made film. Amusing and pathetic all at once.
Really, I don’t mind the rain. I don’t really mind sunshine or heatwaves or wind, either. I’ve never been too emotionally invested in the weather. It’s not something I can control, so I’ve learned to tolerate it in all its forms.
Somewhere in that thought is a meaningful piece of life advice but I’m too forlorn to find it.
The librarian approaches me tentatively, the clack of her kitten heels muffled by the dingy grey carpet. Its colour matches both her hair and her eyes perfectly. “Can I help you find anything?” She asks sweetly.
“Oh, no,” I respond because I hate lying, “I’m just trying to escape the rain.”
“Well, in the case, feel free to use the coffee maker.”
I can’t help but compare her to my own mother, how they both have a welcoming quietness that radiates from them. My quietness is only awkward. “Thanks,” I smile politely before turning back to stare out the window.
***
The library is an extension of the local college. Throughout the day I witness a few people around my age meandering between the bookshelves and manage to hide from the ones I recognize. Some seem engaged by their surroundings, but most look like it pains them to even read the book titles, let alone the actual content.
It isn’t until my head buzzes from my third cup of coffee that I notice the boy standing in the middle of the references section. The erratic thudding in my heart is unwarranted, but inevitable. Even beneath the fluorescent lighting, he’s something.
Seeing him in the daylight is like seeing a different person entirely. I want him near me just so I can count the freckles splattered across his nose, because they weren’t there the other night. The name rolls off my tongue. Remnants of it sticks to my lips. “Liam,” I mumble, and then my legs are pushing me off my seat and carrying toward him.
“My father had this set of really expensive encyclopedias,” As I approach the boy, I begin to speak. Oddly enough, the admission flows easily. “He used to display them in our living room like they were a prize. And one day,” He hasn’t looked up from his book, but his demeanour has changed into something more enthusiastic, signalling me to move closer and continue my anecdote, “they just weren’t there anymore. When I asked him where they went, he told me that he’d gotten rid of them. That he didn’t need them because my mother already knew everything.”
He takes his time closing the book, tucking it beneath his arm. Every moment without a response has me second guessing myself, until he eventually asks, “Is that true or did you make it up?”
“Guess.” I’m like a little kid, standing with my hands behind my back, rocking from my heels to my toes.
“From what I’ve heard of him, your dad doesn’t seem like the type to make jokes for humour’s sake.”
Flash-frozen. It’s instantaneous. I jerk to a halt, casting glances over his shoulder, to the red EXIT sign, to the clock that reads two twelve. To anywhere but him. “You remember what I told you about my father?”
“I remember each word you said in every conversation.” There’s no mocking tone in his voice, which is a little comforting. Like being cold and given socks for your barefeet, but not a blanket for your entire body.
His memory is flattering, but it also makes me nervous. “Then I guess it’s to my disadvantage that I don’t.”
“Nora.” My name is a sigh on his cracked lips.
“He loved us sometimes.”
And then I push past him toward the door.
I sit in the public library, nestled on one of the cushioned window seats. During my childhood, I was never one to read for leisure. Words on a page have never appealed to me like motion pictures on a screen do. I would’ve gone to the movie theatre, but that costs money.
A few droplets of rain splatter against the glass. I stare at the trails they leave on the window’s surface, trying to find a pattern within the trickles, counting the seconds between each new drip.
Being in the house is unsettling. Months ago, when the tiny bungalow was blanketed in silence I’d feel safe, but now I just feel vulnerable. But even so, I’m even more discomfited when the radio is blaring or when Linda Swan, the anchor of the local six o’clock news, is speaking to me. Obnoxious noise is such a blatant coverup. After lounging around the bungalow for a few days, with my racing thoughts as my only company, I decided it’d be the best for my sanity to spend the least amount of time there as possible.
I’m comforted by my attempts to convince myself that the house isn’t empty. However, there’s a bubble growing in my chest. It’s made of either hysterical laughter or hysterical tears and I’d like to let it burst just to find out which of the two it is. I’m constantly torn between not letting myself feel and wondering what it would feel like if I did.
I scoff, annoyed at myself for feeling like a sappy character in the middle of an independently made film. Amusing and pathetic all at once.
Really, I don’t mind the rain. I don’t really mind sunshine or heatwaves or wind, either. I’ve never been too emotionally invested in the weather. It’s not something I can control, so I’ve learned to tolerate it in all its forms.
Somewhere in that thought is a meaningful piece of life advice but I’m too forlorn to find it.
The librarian approaches me tentatively, the clack of her kitten heels muffled by the dingy grey carpet. Its colour matches both her hair and her eyes perfectly. “Can I help you find anything?” She asks sweetly.
“Oh, no,” I respond because I hate lying, “I’m just trying to escape the rain.”
“Well, in the case, feel free to use the coffee maker.”
I can’t help but compare her to my own mother, how they both have a welcoming quietness that radiates from them. My quietness is only awkward. “Thanks,” I smile politely before turning back to stare out the window.
***
The library is an extension of the local college. Throughout the day I witness a few people around my age meandering between the bookshelves and manage to hide from the ones I recognize. Some seem engaged by their surroundings, but most look like it pains them to even read the book titles, let alone the actual content.
It isn’t until my head buzzes from my third cup of coffee that I notice the boy standing in the middle of the references section. The erratic thudding in my heart is unwarranted, but inevitable. Even beneath the fluorescent lighting, he’s something.
Seeing him in the daylight is like seeing a different person entirely. I want him near me just so I can count the freckles splattered across his nose, because they weren’t there the other night. The name rolls off my tongue. Remnants of it sticks to my lips. “Liam,” I mumble, and then my legs are pushing me off my seat and carrying toward him.
“My father had this set of really expensive encyclopedias,” As I approach the boy, I begin to speak. Oddly enough, the admission flows easily. “He used to display them in our living room like they were a prize. And one day,” He hasn’t looked up from his book, but his demeanour has changed into something more enthusiastic, signalling me to move closer and continue my anecdote, “they just weren’t there anymore. When I asked him where they went, he told me that he’d gotten rid of them. That he didn’t need them because my mother already knew everything.”
He takes his time closing the book, tucking it beneath his arm. Every moment without a response has me second guessing myself, until he eventually asks, “Is that true or did you make it up?”
“Guess.” I’m like a little kid, standing with my hands behind my back, rocking from my heels to my toes.
“From what I’ve heard of him, your dad doesn’t seem like the type to make jokes for humour’s sake.”
Flash-frozen. It’s instantaneous. I jerk to a halt, casting glances over his shoulder, to the red EXIT sign, to the clock that reads two twelve. To anywhere but him. “You remember what I told you about my father?”
“I remember each word you said in every conversation.” There’s no mocking tone in his voice, which is a little comforting. Like being cold and given socks for your barefeet, but not a blanket for your entire body.
His memory is flattering, but it also makes me nervous. “Then I guess it’s to my disadvantage that I don’t.”
“Nora.” My name is a sigh on his cracked lips.
“He loved us sometimes.”
And then I push past him toward the door.