The glazed panes of the entrance judder in their frames at the slightest effort. No return sound comes out of the bell.

Eli shoots a look at it over his shoulder. *That bell. I don’t even remember the last time it worked properly.*

He carries in the raindrops on his jacket and damp on his hair as if the street hasn’t yet found the file on letting him go.

The door creeps towards closing and considers it done at the last sliver. A gap persists. Rain that drips from glass and timber pools around the threshold. It has turned into the bookshop’s idea of a welcome mat reflecting the front shelves in a distorted strip.

His focus aims back to the shop, and it greets him all at once with its perfect dullness in imperfect order. *Good ol’ lights and their forever incompetence in 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.*

The sound is just as bland where only the quiet slides and thuds of books being stacked and shelved fill the space.

He stares at the spines that stick out from their shelves. *Some of those already are on their way out. Does that count as sorting now? They obviously need me to arrange them back in order.*

His hand reaches over to the front pockets of his jeans. *Keys and phone. Lighter and…*

He keeps his watch on Maz and veers towards the poetry section; he has definitely always been heading there. *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.*

His eyelids stop moving when the smell from the vent finds him. He taps his fingers against a boxy outline over his other pocket in a rhythm that’s too uneven to be called one. A muted metallic rattle is what comes out of it, 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.

Her chunky boots squeak against the wood as she turns. Matte satin mini skirt swishes against a shelf. Black ponytail whips to her side. Burnt-orange eyeliner, which is more of a hazard paint than makeup, glares brighter than the lights can take credit for.

“These books on the ladder…” She points a finger at a stack, and the gold cuff, a serpent shape that is wound twice around her wrist, hoards what morning leaks through the window and throws it onto Ron’s glasses. “Are we sorting by title or by how much damage they cause when they fall?”

Ron rolls a coin across his knuckles, every pass a toll paid, as he considers the books Meg is referring 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.”

His hand slides the till drawer shut. He ambles towards the staff room, muttering about tea and the lost art of guidance as if they share the same odds of being misplaced behind the biscuits.

Eli leans a shoulder against a shelf near Meg and slides out a paperback from it. The speed at which he is flipping through the pages is a little over what should pass for even a pretence of reading. His attention keeps snapping to a row near Meg’s boots.

The end of that shelf hangs heavy, the bookend sitting a few fingers shy of where it should be. Eli reaches for it but pulls his hand back before entering Meg’s kick range.

A thin book with a blank spine tilts. When it presses into its neighbouring book, the row of books begins to tumble. One falls onto the next until the shelf gives a quiet creak as its end dips a touch.

He keeps it in his sight as he slides the book he is holding back into its own row.

“Need a hand?” His voice floats up towards Meg, and as it does, it aims for a casual tone, which gets near enough.

“I’m good.” Meg looks past him at Maz. “Unless you’re offering a softer landing.”

She swings down effortlessly with one leg and a hand gliding against the wooden stile. Her skirt shows off a suggestion of thunder, enough to count as a choice or even a performance.

Maz catches the exchange. Her hand stalls on the next spine she is about 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 keep it useful. Yeah, normal.*

The rest of his words follow in a rush. “That shelf’s on the verge of dropping. See it? Those guys… the chapbooks keep piling onto Plath, and the others will follow even more since, you see, the weight’s already out of the way to let… gravity win. I mean, move the bookend. It’ll collapse otherwise, and it’ll need sorting again. Nobody wants to keep re-sorting the same thing over and over again.”

Meg looks him over and holds the stare as if she is 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 without even a glance at it. The movement is neat and smooth. *So she already knew.*

He turns. As he heads for the counter, he stops mid-step. *Obviously, I need to work on my attempts at ‘normal’.*

His shoulders drop as he touches the boxy outline over his jeans again, for comfort or courage. He carries on; his jacket rustles as he goes. Its pockets are bursting with pens and tidy stacks of folded notes. The ink that seeps through the damp paper suggests the shapes of numbered lists.

He glances at Maz. *Right. I’ll ask her straight up. No, tease. Teasing is safer.*

As he approaches, Maz turns to the trolley and stacks another book, though it lands upside down.

She runs a hand over the next one, 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 is close enough for her to catch the day’s first melancholy leaking from the rain-dotted headphones around his neck.

Her foot taps along to his tune, almost on instinct, mimicking the slow heartbeat rhythm it plays with. She never raises her head. *Why does he keep wanting to announce to the world what he’s listening to? He knows you hate that. But… You 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 becoming a touch. More 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.” She tries to avoid his face, finds his pocket, hand, 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’s 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 steps back, 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 heads back towards the poetry shelves, he fixes his gaze on the padlocked trapdoor. A label clings to it, handwritten and fading, edges curled and corners gone limp:

‘DO NOT STEP HERE (seriously, don’t). – Meg’

Eli ignores it and doesn’t break stride. Each step is 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.

The bell gives a one-way ding.

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. Their mouths open as if to gasp. Their eyes climb to the ceiling as the ringing sustains, unsure if it is the echo or the expectation of one.

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 already placed in the farthest reaches of the gaps.

The rain outside stops abruptly as if aware it wants no part in what happens next.