Meg stands halfway up the rolling ladder by the side wall shelves. “How much longer?” The shelf she looks at, where her hand braces, of course, responds with nothing.
Her mouth cinches at one corner as her other hand takes a paperback from a stack on the rung at her waist level. Its slick cover carries a lurid drawing in black.
“Hm. Someone’s forgotten to add some fire in that background.” She squeezes it into its row. “I wouldn’t be entirely against anything venomous either, though.” A final whack on the spine aligns it with its neighbours.
She reaches for the last one that looks like a crime novel and pushes it into its gap. Another blank space a few titles down the shelf drags her attention. Her eyes stay on the empty line until they begin to narrow as her chin pulls back a notch. She scans the shelf, the rung, the floor, and the blank slot again for the book that isn’t on any of them.
Meg climbs down and stomps towards the counter. Her boots that thump against the floorboards only make them creak louder with every footfall. She veers towards the staff stack behind the till and slaps a hand on the one at the top. It has a red spine and a dented hardcover.
She takes the book and places it nearer the till. Her little fingernail hits its cover as muted as one of the drizzle drops against the shop’s window. The next finger follows, and the next. Her nails drum a slow roll, letting a cold fury gather beneath each strike.
The shop door swings open. The bell above it jingles with it, as if it has always worked properly, and who was anyone to think otherwise.
A man steps inside. The closed umbrella he carries drips on the already damp floor. Each drop forms miniature indoor puddles. His eyes skim the shelves until they stop on the red spine 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. The tray opens with its usual ping. She holds it partway. Her hand lifts the cash container inside and reaches under it.
Out comes a notebook about the size of her hand. A gold fountain pen hangs clipped to its front. Its leather cover squeaks when she flicks through the pages thick with dates and promises. She stops, spreads the covers wide, and puts it on the counter.
One finger traces the most recent entry. “Last Wednesday. ‘Wants the red true-crime, promises to be back tomorrow.’”
She looks up. “Ring any bells?”
“I think…” His hand finds his chin for a scratch. “Yeah. Yeah, I was watching the final episode of – it was super good, though.” He lifts his hands towards his temples and his fingers wiggle outward like miming a blast. “Totally blew my mind.”
The serpent cuff warms against Meg’s wrist.
Her eyes snap to it, then back to him. “Life happens.” Her dry tone turns the words into fangs.
“No one’s drafting you for judgement.” She slaps the leather covers shut. “Yet.”
Meg slides the notebook aside and holds out the red book towards him.
He reaches for it.
“Let’s hope you don’t make a habit of breaking your word.” Her hand 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 recounts them, her fingers flicking through the small pile.
“And…” She hands back the two coins and holds his gaze. “Try not to make it three Wednesdays in a row.”
A confusion that passes over his face turns into brief relief before he walks out of the shop.
The bell jingles after him.
Meg leans on the counter and watches the door almost close.
Her thumb moves over the serpent cuff before she slides the notebook back. She runs a finger along the side, past the edges of the sharp pages, to a dented chunk at the back and flips it open. No dates are penned there, nor words.
A dark circle is drawn on that page. Lines cluster in groups of three below it. Each has two short vertical strokes and a third that crosses through them diagonally. A three-strike tally mark where patience curdles into a grudge. Except for the final set.
She slides the fountain pen free, uncaps it, and jams the cap onto its tail before slashing a line across the last pair. The new ink is much darker than the rest against the paper. She tilts the pen to tap its back beside it.
Meg turns the page.
Two circles this time, side by side, overlapping by half. A short horizontal line runs through the middle of the pair. Below them stand two tally marks. The last is scored deeper into the page than the rest, the nib having been forced harder.
She just looks at them. Pen in hand. Her last two fingers hold the page’s corner until the paper creases.
The tip touches down beside the lines.
It stays there, ready to strike if her hand lets it. An indent underneath it begins to grow deeper the harder she pushes. The lights above her flicker. A brief brightness throws across her hand, and the two stark marks on the page that are waiting for their third. She doesn’t add it.
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 on the paper beneath. The two lines next to it already look thinner, flatter, half-hearted at best.
The staff room door opens hard enough to make a thudding announcement for itself. Maz emerges, her face closed off. She is squeezing a lighter in her fist, and not so much seeing the shop or anyone in it as carving through it towards the rear exit.
Meg watches her pass.
Her eyes return to the notebook. The two marks on the page are still where she left them, and the serpent cuff remains cold against her wrist. She closes the cover without a slap this time.
The bell jingles as another customer steps in.
Meg slides the pen back onto the cover and the notebook into the till tray. “How may I…” She pastes on a smile just about bright enough to sell forgiveness to a liar. “…help?”