She’d walk through old book stores, and run her fingers on dust filled books but you wouldn’t dare catch her reading one. Instead she’d have the same exact song on repeat for hours, her eyes touching the words on the back covers and the first few pages, but that was all. She’d smile on her way out the same exact smile every week. She’d return the next week, with curls in her silk touched hair and red lips. You’d never see her with another soul, except her own. She was a different character, her grey eyes looked sad, her face never seemed happy. Even though she appeared to be content, I never believed it for a second.
I wasn’t sure if it was her old washed out denim jackets that kept her hidden in the back of my mind, or her always chipped purple nail polish. But somehow, she was all I could think about. I waited every week hoping I’d be able to spot her there, looking at the books as she always did. And as every week past, I did. But as fast as I saw her, I’d then see her leave. She’d pass me every time, gently grazing my old college football jacket on her way out. She smelt of chai tea and cinnamon. It was a unique smell, yet addicting.
I always wondered if she’d noticed me. The tall, dark haired guy in the corner with stubble on his cheeks, that smelled of mint and the washed over taste of last night’s alcohol. I soon came to the conclusion that she never would notice me, because every week she had the same routine " and I wasn’t part of it. Or so I thought.
It was a Sunday when she came in, a silver cross hung from her neck and I wondered if she’d gone to church that day. It was slightly drizzling outside and her curls were flat on the top of her head, and her red lips were somewhat faded. Her blue jean jacket looked new today, and she wore black heels instead of tennis shoes and I wondered what the occasion was.
She finished her normal routine, of gazing at books and pacing up and down aisles when she began to exit the store. She first gave her regular dim-lit smile to the store keeper before making her way to brush past me yet again. But instead when she was about to pass me she stopped, and touched my arm gently applying just enough pressure to make me look up from the book my eyes were attacking.
“Thank you.” Were the words she spoke and I looked up confused and misunderstood. Why was she thanking me when I had never spoken a word to her? I wasn’t sure. And with those two words she had stumbled out of the book store leaving me confused and curious.
I thought it over in my head, and thought of how unusual this was. I shoved the book I had just been observing back into its regular spot and threw my hood up over my head. I made my way through the door as the little bell above gave me a goodbye jingle. I saw her standing there, out in the rain. She didn’t move an inch when I yelled “excuse me?” Instead, she stood there staring, and I’m not quite sure what she was looking at, and to this day I may never know. I walked over to her, sticking my hands in my pockets, fighting to keep dry from the rain above me.
“Hi.” Were the words I had spoken, in a tone that was almost begging for those grey eyes to light up. That was when she said the words that threw my life in circles and almost made me collapse. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive.”
Her voice was faint, yet powerful. It shot through me, like an arrow through my heart. I felt pain in places I’d never felt pain before. I’ll be honest; I didn’t understand why she said this. My mind couldn’t wrap around those few words that she had just spewed from her mouth. But I somehow learnt how.
It’s been two years since I met that girl, the one with the red lips and old denim jackets that fit her body so perfectly.
And, ever since, I’ve spent those two years trying to understand even the deepest and dustiest corners of her mind.
I learnt a lot about her in a short time over a cup of tea and some indie music. I learnt she hated books, that’s why she’d never read one. I learnt she didn’t like the color purple but it reminded her of the Spring flowers and Spring was her favorite. She told me that she’d drink three cups of chai tea a day, but it never seemed like enough and that she never really knew herself at all. I learnt that she had noticed me, more than once. Yet she was too painfully shy to ever say hello. She told me that the day she had come in with faded red lips and black heels so high it was hard to walk was because her brother had died after years of suffering. She only came to the bookstore because she wanted to see me one last time, before downing twenty pills with the left over vodka from three nights back.
And finally, she told me that I saved her.
I saved a girl, I never knew and maybe it was meant to be that way. Maybe I was meant to be there that Sunday clutching onto my favorite novel and admiring the same old girl. Maybe it was fate that brought us together, or maybe it was something as simple as the pain we both held on to.
The only thing I ever really knew was that the girl with the cross around her neck, denim clinging to her shoulders, with red lips and messy brown curls had a story, just like me. She wasn’t just a girl from the bookstore, but a girl with character. She wasn’t just someone who brushed past me by accident; she was someone who was meant to be at that bookstore on that Sunday for a reason.
And maybe that reason was as simple as to save my life that I would have ended that very same day.
----
Week after week, I strolled into the same dusty bookshop, only to pick up a few books, gaze across them and make my way back home. Truth was I hated books, I hated reading and I’d much rather paint, with watercolors and crumpled up papers. But something always drew me back to this bloody bookshop. Maybe it was the smell of autumn leaves and cloves or maybe it was the boy in the corner with fear in his eyes and me on his mind. He thought I never noticed him, I could tell he did. But I saw those gashes on his damn wrists and I saw his lips tremble when I brushed up against his velvet jacket.
Every single week he’d read the same novel, cover to cover and wear the same football jacket painted with emerald green and daffodil yellow. It reminded me of Spring, and Spring was my favorite. It was strange the way his rusty eyes glanced from page to page, then quickly looking up catching mine and hold on as if it was saving his life.
Sunday was the day that I came back to the book shop a block or two away from my cold, empty apartment. You’d never see me in on a Sunday, when I should be at church with a silver-stone cross hanging around my frail bones. That was the day I thanked that young man. I’m sure he didn’t understand my words, but I understood and that was all that truly mattered. I had walked away ready to throw back a few pills and some stale alcohol, ready to go home when he had saved my life.
He tore me from my words and made my mind work so hard I couldn’t stand to think another second. I realized if I left now, he would have to leave now too.
He told me about those slashes on his wrists and a few on his thighs and I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard. He laughed when I told him that I didn’t believe in god and that this cross around my neck probably meant more to him than it ever would to me. He thought I was lying, but I told him I’d never lie about something so real. He said my hips felt like church and my lips like heaven. I threw my head back in a sudden fit of laughter and told him I’m much closer to hell. I learnt about his fears that day as he drank his tea slowly, and he said that he wasn’t afraid to die but more afraid of what comes next because he sure as hell didn’t want to live another life as painful as this one. Somehow, I couldn’t agree more.
That was the day when I took of that cross and I gingerly placed it in the palm of his sweaty hands. And that was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. It looked beautiful on him, the way the moon looks beautiful on the back drop of the black night sky. And that was the first night that I prayed, not for me and all my sins but for him and all the peace that he deserves.
And he held so close to that damn cross that God himself would never be able to understand why.
I remember Sunday like it was yesterday and even though years have passed I still seem to see him outside that smoke filled, burned up bookstore as if that was all he had. And he still clutched onto that cross with his ancient college jacket hugging his shoulders and the bitter sweet taste of alcohol on his lips. That was when I realized that he wasn’t the only one who missed that book store, because I did too. And that’s why we both stood in the front with rain soaking through our muddy shoes and our hair flat as that old mixed tape he made me a week ago. And the moments like these were what brought me back the most, to the days when he said I felt like an Angel who never received my wings and the hours when his laughs so addicting yet dangerous filled up the space in my empty apartment room.
It seemed to me that forgetting isn’t what life’s about, instead it’s holding onto the memories and making new ones even though they seem to never add up to what has already past.
And if it wasn’t for that day when I said thank you, I might be standing here alone with my subtle smile and tears in my already torn up eyes.
And if it wasn’t for that Sunday when my faded lips spoke words I would have never dared to say, there might be no one standing outside this bookshop, except the little old shop keeper who was too tired to stand there alone.
------
My favorite days were when they were both there, fiddling with books filled with secrets and words that never made any sense. He’d smile at her and look at her like she made the moon and the stars shine, yet she never saw. She’d be too busy letting her eyes kiss novels she never seemed to borrow and letting her fingers run through her golden brown mess of curls.
She’d reminded me of my wife when she was young, before the darkness surrounded her. She was tall, with long legs and porcelain white skin. Dimples so deep they’d reach to mars and back. And that smile she gave me every single week was the one my wife used to give me, after putting the last ratted old book out on the shelf.
The young lad in the corner made me think of myself. A handsome man, with bony features who let his fears get the best of him. He seemed shy and constantly worried and I wondered if he drank away his problems. And I wondered if he felt as lonely as I did.
It was a Sunday when they had spoken and she should be at church but instead made her way around, not giving up her normal routine. I’d figured he should still be in bed, catching up on the sleep from the nights where he laid awake, yet they both seemed to ignore their regular routines. The book shop was quiet when her faint voice brought peace to the novels lining the shelves. Her words weren’t many, but seemed to last forever. He’d chased out after her and something magical happened out on 70th street while the rain washed away past the bakery that smelled of raw dough and down through the narrow sidewalks.
It was funny because I’d never seen them again, for at least two week after they’d spoken. Neither came in to say hello to the latest novels, or old friends sitting on the shelves. I wondered what had happened and figured that maybe they’d found their happiness, or maybe they had so much anger they’d finally let it free and went back home.
I had my nose deep in one of the books that had just arrived three days earlier, the Sunday sun was bright and broke through the curtains hanging from the dirt filled windows, when the constant buzzing of the fire alarm rang and the burnt smell of books started to rise. It wasn’t soon before the smoke surrounded my unbreakable bones and I took in one more deep breath in my old bookshop as a tear began to roll down from my glossy eyes, caressing the rosy pink skin on my cheeks. That was when I scurried outside and stood looking up at my masterpiece that was not as beautiful as it was before. I didn’t notice it at first, but when I turned my fragile head to the left, I saw a familiar face. It was the man who never seemed to read a different novel, wearing his football jacket and a cross in his palm, the hazel in his eyes seemed more noticeable today and the girl in faded blue denim with stunning red lips and wet loose curls stood still hugging tight to his hip.
A soft smile broke free from my lips as I understood that my masterpiece that I spent so many years cherishing was gone, but it created something so beautiful that that was maybe all I ever needed to complete the empty gap in my last years.
Because I’d rather stand outside this worn up, old, ash filled bookstore with the two people who just found their happiness over deserted old books, then alone with someone who already had their happiness years ago and never understood it till now.
And that was the exact moment when I realized that sometimes you have to give up some of your good, so that someone else can have the great in which they deserve.
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