As Eli steps in, the thick glazed pane of the entrance judders in its frame, claiming frailty despite his gentle push on the already ajar door. When no return chime sounds from the bell above, he shoots a look at it over his shoulder.
That bell. I don’t even remember the last time it worked properly.
He brings in the raindrops on his jacket and the dampness in his hair, as if the street still tries to find the file on letting him go.
The door creeps towards closing and stops, leaving a persistent sliver of a gap. Rain drips from glass and timber to pool around the threshold like a makeshift welcome mat that reflects the front shelves in a distorted strip.
His focus returns to the shop as the soft sliding and thudding of books being stacked and shelved greets him all at once with its perfect dullness in imperfect order.
Good ol’ lights and their forever incompetence against the sheer height of the place. They’re still the best at highlighting the lifetime supply of paper dust. Should give them that, at least.
One after another, he studies the spines that stick out from their shelves.
Some of those are officially on their way out. Does that count as sorting now? They obviously need me to rearrange them back into order.
His hand reaches to pat the front pockets of his jeans.
Keys and phone. Lighter and…
He keeps a fitful watch on Maz, flashing his eyes her way every few seconds, as he veers towards the poetry section; he was clearly heading there all along.
O…kay. Right. I’ll give her a minute. Smile first. If she smiles back, then I haven’t dreamt it up. If she doesn’t… I still haven’t. But then it’d be more likely that I’m the problem.
The smell from the vent finds him, and his eyelids stop moving. He taps his fingers on a boxy outline over his other pocket, in a rhythm too uneven to be called one, and in return receives a muted metallic rattle, louder than the bell’s effort.
Did she take her half without me? She wouldn’t.
“Hey, Ron?” Meg’s voice rings down from four rungs up the ladder.
As she turns, her long black ponytail whips across her shoulder, chunky boots squeak on the wood, and her matte satin mini skirt swishes along a shelf. Burnt-orange eyeliner, which would serve better as a hazard warning paint than makeup, glares brighter than the shop lights could ever take credit for.
“These books on the ladder…” She points a finger at a stack. The gold cuff, a serpent shape wound twice around her wrist, hoards what morning light leaks through the window and throws it onto Ron’s glasses.
“Are we sorting by title or by how much damage they’ll cause once they fall?”
Ron rolls a coin across his knuckles, every pass a toll paid, as he considers the stack Meg refers to.
“Why not both?” He drops the coin into the cash tray.
“Titles can mislead. The real danger tends to lurk under a sensible cover.”
He slides the till drawer shut and ambles towards the staff room, muttering about tea and the lost art of guidance, as if both were equally likely to be found forgotten behind the biscuits.
Eli leans a shoulder on a shelf near Meg and slides out a paperback from it. The speed at which he flips through the pages looks a little beyond what should pass for even a pretence of reading. His attention keeps snapping to a row of books near Meg’s boots.
The end of that shelf hangs heavy, and the bookend sits a few fingers shy of where it should be. Eli reaches for it but pulls his hand back before entering Meg’s kicking range.
A thin book with a blank spine tilts. When it presses into the neighbouring title, the whole row begins to topple. One falls onto the next, and another, until the wood gives a subtle creak as its end dips a touch further.
He locks his eyes on the shelf and slides the paperback into its place.
“Need a hand?” His voice floats up to Meg, and along the way, the casual tone he aims for loses its point.
“I’m good.” Meg looks past him at Maz.
“Unless you’re offering a softer landing.”
She flings her leg and a hand onto the wooden side rail before swinging down in an effortless glide. Her skirt shows off a suggestion of thunder, enough to count as a choice or even a performance.
Across the shop, Maz catches the exchange. Her hand stalls on the next spine she has readied to stack. She glances from the skirt to the tilt of Eli’s grin and stops at Meg’s gaze pinned on her.
Don’t count that. Stack. Work. Keep the books between you and whatever that was.
Eli pushes off the shelves.
“Right.” He stretches the vowel loose until it nears a calm sound.
I clearly shouldn’t do this. I’m doing it anyway. I’ll make it useful. Yeah, normal.
The rest of his words spill out in a rush.
“That shelf’s on the verge of dropping. See it? Those guys… the chapbooks are doomed to pile onto Plath, and the others will follow even more since, you see, the weight’s well out of the way to let… gravity win. I mean, you should move the bookend. It’ll collapse otherwise, and you’ll need to start from scratch. Nobody wants to sort the same thing again and again, or worse, refit the whole section.”
Meg looks him over and holds the stare as if taking measurements.
“You realise you sound like a filing cabinet on a first date with a shelf.”
Eli watches her hand reach up to that row and adjust the bookend in a smooth gesture without even a glance at it.
So she was aware anyway.
He turns and heads for the counter.
Obviously, I need to work on my attempts at ‘normal’.
For comfort or courage, he touches the ridges of the boxy outline over the denim once more, and his shoulders drop. His jacket rustles as he goes. Its pockets burst with pens and tidy stacks of folded notes. The ink seeping through the damp paper suggests nothing more than the shapes of numbered lists.
He glances at Maz.
Right. I’ll ask her straight up. No, tease. Teasing is safer.
As Eli approaches, Maz turns to her trolley and adds another book to a new stack, not paying any attention to the fact that it lands upside down.
She runs a hand across the next cover, a worn copy of Inferno. The crease on its spine pokes up under her touch with each pass.
If only you could symbolise yourself straight out of the shop.
Eli leans on the counter. He stands close enough for her to catch the day’s first notes of melancholy leaking from the rain-dotted headphones around his neck.
Her foot taps along to his tune, on instinct, mimicking the slow heartbeat rhythm it plays with. She never raises her head.
Why does he always want to announce to the world what he’s listening to? Need for attention or masking something else? He knows you hate that. But… You do love that song. Is that… Portishead? Again?
The scent beneath the music drifts towards her, and she lets Inferno drop onto the counter.
Cigarette smell does go well with that musky thing of mystery he wears to keep the world at shadow’s breadth. Oh… He must’ve been drinking last night, then. Stop it. Just turn away.
His fingers walk the counter and stagger near her clipboard, stopping short of making contact, leaving them poised more as a question.
“Miss me.” Not quite a question.
Maz’s smile escapes before she catches it.
“Are we still not speaking, Maz?”
“We are speaking.” Her eyes try to avoid his face, finding his pocket, the gap between him and her clipboard, and, at last, his headphones.
“In measured doses. Like medicine.”
He leans closer as his voice carries the curl of a grin that thinks it has won.
“Side effects include thinking about me every shelf you pass.”
“Delusion aisle is three rows down.”
His hazel eyes stumble into the deep browns of hers. Whatever he was going to ask fails to get the chance to find air when he looks away.
He backs off, hoists the donation box off the floor, and hitches the weight under his arm. The top layer of books inside slips to one side.
Right, she smiled at least. Now what?
As he marches back to the poetry shelves, he fixes his gaze on the padlocked trapdoor. A label clings to it, handwritten and fading, its edges curled and corners gone limp:
‘DO NOT STEP HERE (seriously, don’t). – Meg’
Eli ignores it and doesn’t break stride. Each step lands as a bargain with the mournful creaks of the hatch’s worn wood while its padlock jangles, offering cheap cheers in contrast.
A man pushes the door open, and the bell sticks to its one-way role. But this time it dings. Its chime rings out a clean note that suggests such good behaviour will not be repeated. It swells as it carries. That single note grows louder the longer it goes and keeps going.
Maz’s head lifts. So does Eli’s. Both look up at the bell, then at each other, mouths agape. Their eyes climb to the ceiling as the ringing sustains. Their eyes widen with uncertainty about hearing an echo or the expectation of one when the sound pretends the shop has turned hollow, and the strip lights have been pulled further up.
A windless chill begins to seep in. It moves towards the shadows that still maintain their places in the farthest reaches of the gaps.
The rain outside stops abruptly, as if aware it never wanted any part in what happens next.
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