Chapter 1 The Day I Should Have Gone to the Library

A Chapter by Siobahn McKenna

“… human speech is like a cracked cauldron on which we knock off tunes for dancing-bears when we want to conjure pity from the stars.” - Flaubert

People (and occasionally lions) describe life as a circle, a metaphoric merry-go-round where things come back onto themselves. I hated him. And then I think I loved him, And then I hated him again, in key with the previous description of life: this is how it came to be. So with no more airs or adieu, I give you the story.

Introducing him. He wasn’t average. And might I add that if this book ever gets published he will have some sick feeling of narcissistic satisfaction resembling a Carly Simon song. He was tall, he had blue eyes, he was intelligent, and he was charming -like Snake charming sans flute level. He was beautiful in the way that I never sought to be; however so full of pretences one can hardly believe that he knew anything about himself at all. He was a very nice person, but he was also only a collection of concrete-like dissemblances, which once one puts up, no one gets in or out. He was the closed to my open book.

I couldn’t stand pretending almost anything for anyone. For instance, as I read Madame Bovary one afternoon I was approach by a man with insidious intent - to this day I believe he wanted to have a conversation with me. I was drinking a commendable dark roast coffee, day dreaming. He saw me reading and approached, opening with:

« I’ve recently finished Gatsby » and before I could be kind and pretend is was an achievement, the words:

“Congratulations, that makes you and everyone in high school » sprung from my lips and I sat quietly in a nebulous of embarrassment, mollification, but also stewing in the fact that I am mildly hilarious. Later when I was perusing some lovely books in a tucked away tiny bookstore a couple of blocks from my humble abode the bell rang, signalling someone entering the store, and I would have looked but the shelf in front of me was too high, so I continued through the titles.

Enter him. He was wearing a dark green scarf, which contrasted his pale skin and dark hair wonderfully, this of course he knew. Shallow b*****d. It was cold outside and he had entered the bookstore, because Why not? His eyes drifted aimlessly across the indications on the shelves, stopping short as a red jacket appeared turning a corner, its wearers nose jammed passionately into the beginnings of some book. He walked near the person, finally finding what he was looking for at the back of the store, but unable to help himself chuckling out:

“You know its bad manners to read the whole book in the store.”

Light brown eyes appeared to him as the book dropped. The strangers eyebrows furrowed and he couldn’t comprehend whether or not I was concerned or sad or curious, as he had told me much later that my expressions are most unreadable. At last the unmistakable edge of contempt brushed my lips together and then to one side of my face. Ignoring him I looked at my paper back. We crossed paths and I didn't say a word. There was nothing special about this book reading creature. I wasn’t uncommonly pretty and I was sure he didn't think much of the interaction. He laughed a little to himself of his own quiet pointed humour and followed his original line of vision to the back of the store to the classic literature section.I turned back to watch the attractive stranger who had felt the need to remark on my reading, my curiosity was piqued as I saw him saunter to the classic literature section. His condescending and irritating comment stole from his looks, and I filed him away in the great cabinet of my mind as an overconfident patronizing prick - with an eye for Oscar Wilde novels apparently. I laughed to myself at how ridiculous he already was and went off towards the philosophy shelf. One might swear I was blushing. I hummed and hawed over a few books on existentialism, the origin of thought, and some Marcus Aurelius I’d always had my eye on, but I soon found myself walking down to the end of the tall bookshelf to peer over at the classical section. A pale face and wisps of wavy brown hair analyzed the tall stranger, shifting his weight and obviously unsure of which to pick, my curious and friendly nature got the better of me. Smiling I said

“The Picture of Dorian Grey is my favourite.” He turned around, slightly surprised to see a girl speaking to him, obscured mostly by a bookshelf.

“What are you, my literary fairy god mother?” He laughed out. Lame. My eye narrowed again eyebrows coming together in that same confused, scared, angry expression that was so hard for him to read. I looked over at the bookshelf I was standing nearest, where I was absentmindedly drumming the tops of the books. True to his accusation it was the section of New Age Religion. I cracked a crooked smile and started forwards towards him, traipsing one long footstep in from of the other, trying not to trip. Hands gripped behind my back.

“I’m not a Wiccan, I’m Catholic. And if you know anything about classic literature you’ll enjoy that book- thats assuming that you know anything about classic literature.” I laughed also. He looked somewhat puzzled but was grinning; however, his eyes weren't in it.

I doubted they were actually in very much.

“Well it sounds like you're the authority.” He fake laughed. I hated it.

He turned back to the bookshelf, thinking me a very interesting stranger. Later he would tell me I looked like I belonged here.

I stopped. I didn't know what had caused me to instigate a conversation with this person, there was something magnetic. Something in his cocky expression, the shape of his jaw. I wanted very badly to say something, but I didn't have anything else to say. I turned, and walked quickly the way I had come. Gathering my books off of the floor from the philosophy section. I felt my forehead to make sure I wasn't running a fever. What on earth had come over me? Four books later and I was at the checkout, in immediate necessity to get out of there and away from this peculiar stranger who sparked my interest in such a outlandish way.

He turned to look after a few more seconds, imagining that the nondescript woman I was would have sidled up beside him and continued to tell him why that was my favourite book and such. I was gone. He snapped a boom off of the shelf and headed to the checkout, sensing that he’d wasted too much time in the bookstore already. He needed to go home and get to work. A flash of red sliding out of the door, the quaint bell ringing, caught his senses and he tried not to notice. The older gentleman running the bookstore smiled pleasantly, his burgundy vest boasting gold buttons and a hidden pocket watch. (He looked just as I’d had always imagined an old man who ran a bookstore to look.)

“Will that be all?” The book keeper’s eyes glinted and you could tell he was pleased; about what, no one couldn't be sure, but it wasn't a far-fetched guess to say just about life in general. My stranger flashed a smile, as best as he could. He was self-conscious, he’d never learned to smile properly, nodding. He was charming and the old man, who he discovered was named Robert, felt at ease and with a nod and some glib small-talk his book was payed for and handed over. He slung the Picture of Dorian Grey into his satchel and sauntered out of the door, that same bell ringing as he left. Enjoying the cool evening, he did not think about the brown-eyed girl with the puzzling expression again.

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