Meg stands halfway up the rolling ladder along the side wall shelves. Her mouth cinches at one corner as she grabs a paperback from a stack on the rung at her waist level.
“How much longer?” she asks the book, which, as expected, offers no answer.
She angles its slick cover that carries a lurid drawing in black towards her.
“Hm. Someone’s forgotten to add some fire in that background.” She squeezes it into its row, her gold serpent cuff banging against the edge of the shelf.
“I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to anything that gives venomous vibes either, though.” A final whack on the spine aligns it with its neighbours.
After reaching for the last one, she leans over to her side, extending her arm as far as she can to grind it into a tight gap in the ‘crime’ section. Another blank space a few titles down drags her attention. She stares at the empty slot until her eyes begin to narrow and her chin pulls in a notch. Neither the shelf itself, the stack on the rung, the floor, nor the gap shows her any signs of where the book has gone.
Meg climbs down and stomps towards the counter. Her boots thump against the floorboards as she goes, making them creak louder with each step.
“Aha.” She veers to a pile of novels labelled ‘reserved’ behind the till and claps a hand on the top one with a red spine and a dented hardback.
Without bothering to lift it, she swipes the book off. It strikes the till before landing on the counter. Her little fingernail hits its cover with a sound as muted as one of the drizzle drops hitting the display window. The ring finger follows, and the next. Her nails drum a slow roll, letting a cold fury gather beneath each click.
The shop door swings open, and the bell above it jingles with it, as if it always worked properly and anything otherwise was its own plausible deniability.
A man steps inside. The closed umbrella he carries in drips on the damp floor, each drop forming a miniature indoor puddle. His eyes skim the shelves, past the bookcases, beyond the donations box, and stop on the red spine resting on the counter.
Meg offers him a flat smile that only stretches in a straight line.
“Good timing. I was starting to think your ‘tomorrow’ had a more…” Her brows hitch upwards.
“…flexible definition.”
His head tilts.
“Sorry?”
She smacks a button on the till. When the tray opens with its usual ping, she holds it partway. Her hand lifts the cash container inside the drawer and reaches under it.
Out comes a notebook, not larger than her span. With a gold fountain pen clipped to its front, its leather cover squeaks as she flicks through the pages thick with dates and notes.
She stops on a page, spreads the covers wide, and lays it on the counter, tracing a line with her finger.
“Let’s see, shall we? Last Wednesday. ‘Wants the red true-crime, promises to be back tomorrow.’” She looks up.
“Ringing any bells?”
“I think…” He scratches his chin.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was watching the final episode of – it was super good, though.” His hands lift to his temples, fingers wiggling outward to mime a blast.
“Totally blew my mind.”
The serpent cuff around Meg’s wrist twists to squeeze a pinch. Her eyes snap to it, then back to him.
“Life happens.” Her dry tone turns the words into a hissing that should belong to something with fangs.
“No one’s drafting you for judgement.” She slaps the leather covers shut.
“Yet.”
She slides the notebook aside and holds the red hardback towards him.
He reaches for it.
She doesn’t let go.
“All I can do is hope that you don’t make a habit of breaking your word.”
He tugs it to himself.
She clasps it harder.
“Some of us collect those.” She lets go of the book at last.
“Cash or card.”
He pays in coins, counting coin by clinking coin, which takes longer than comfort allows for either of them.
Meg glances at him and recounts them, flicking through the small pile.
“And, no forgetting…” She hands back a coin and holds his gaze.
“Try not to make it three Wednesdays in a row.”
The confusion that passes over his face turns into brief relief before he walks out of the shop, and the bell jingles after him.
Meg leans on the counter and watches the door almost close. She slides the notebook to herself, thumb brushing the skin where her serpent cuff still pinches. Along the side of the pages, she runs a fingertip past the crisp edges until she gets to a dented section near the end and flips it open.
With no words or dates, a drawn dark circle dominates the paper there. Lines cluster in groups of three below it, two short vertical strokes and a third that crosses through them diagonally. It resembles a series of three-strike tally marks if patience curdles into a grudge. Except for the final set.
She slides the fountain pen free, uncaps it, and jams the cap onto its barrel before slashing a line across the last pair. The new ink settles on the paper much darker than the rest. Her cuff gently unwinds, shedding its squeezing grip to become a harmless piece of jewellery once more. She spins the pen to tap its back beside it and turns the page.
Dual circles drawn at the top, side by side, overlap halfway, and a short horizontal line runs through the middle. Below them stand two tally marks, the second line scored deeper into the page than the first, as if the nib had been forced harder.
She looks at them, pen in her grip, her pinky finger curling the corner of the page until it folds. The tip touches down beside the lines. It stays put, ready to strike if her hand lets it. An indent underneath it begins to grow deeper the harder she pushes.
Above her, the lights flicker. A brief brightness throws itself across her unmoved fingers and onto the two stark marks on the page that wait for their third.
She holds the pen tighter and tighter as both the ridge of the plastic and her nail dig into her finger. When the nib finally lifts, it leaves a heavy pool of ink in the small well she carved into the paper beneath. The two lines next to it already look thinner and flatter.
The staff room door opens hard enough to make a thudding announcement for itself. Maz emerges, her face closed off, squeezing a lighter in her fist, not so much seeing the shop or anyone in it; she carves through it towards the rear exit.
Meg waits for her to pass. Her eyes return to the notebook. The unslashed lines on the page remain where she left them, and the serpent cuff takes another subtle winding around her wrist, gold biting into her skin. She closes the cover without a slap this time.
The bell jingles as another customer steps in.
Meg clips the pen back onto the cover and shoves the notebook beneath the till tray.
“How may I…” She pastes on a smile just about bright enough to sell forgiveness to a liar.
“…help?”
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