park bench » vkook

3

My shift at the cozy Olde Bookstore starts at ten in the morning and ends at four o'clock. This means that I won't be able to see the boy or leave him another poem.

My mood is considerably sour as I park in the employees' lot. However, it's nearly impossible to hold on to that feeling when I step into the bookstore. It smells of old paper and ink and classical music plays faintly. The store is small, but I've never found the source of the music, and I'm convinced an old gramophone is hiding somewhere. The aisles are towering, cramped, and chaotic. Books thudding to the floor are a constant bass track to my day. I know that there's chairs scattered here and there, but they're difficult to find amongst the clutter. We get a ton of customers, and whenever they ask for help finding a book, I'm pretty much useless and it's incredibly awkward for everyone involved.

I love it.

The thing about working in a retail store is that everyone's faces blur together after awhile. My days at the shop pass in a cultivation of strange little things I know about people whose faces I can't remember. Today is different, though, because he comes up to the desk. My mouth dries up and I curse the decision I made earlier to rip out the poem and fold it into my pocket, because I nearly miss what he says as I nervously play with the paper. 

"I was wondering if you could help me find The Great Gatsby," he says, then his blank face fills with recognition; eyebrows lifting and mouth forming that boxy smile. I'm too embarrassed to enjoy the sight as he exclaims, "Hey! You're that guy who fell off the bench at the park yesterday!"

I sigh and put my head in hands to hide my fiery cheeks. "Unfortunately, that would be me."

He laughs, and the sound is enough to make me look up again; it's a deep laugh but it sounds as though it could transform into a giggle at any second. I try to ignore how sweaty my palms are and how good he looks with his messy brown hair. I get up from behind the counter and squeak, "Let's see if I can help you find your book without falling over anything else."

Of course, as I step around the counter, my foot catches on the wood and I go flying right into the boy's chest. He laughs again and steadies me, arms circling my body. I hope he can't feel how fast my heart is beating; his left arm presses against my chest. He stands me upright and lets go of me, and a little part of me is upset. The larger part mostly just wants to die. Or disappear; whichever is more convenient.

"I hate my life," I grumble. The boy's eyes widen in an innocent expression of concern and he looks extremely adorable. "I'm joking," I tell him, then try to flash him a smile. He mirrors me, looking a lot more genuine, and I gesture for him to follow me in search of the book. Something about him is different; I feel more comfortable around him than I would around a different stranger. However, this still means that I'm liable to dissolve into an awkward mess at any second. As we walk, I look back at him and see that he's trailing his fingers over the books' spines as we pass them, face open and full of wonder. The warm orange-yellow light makes him look otherworldly; like an antique sepia photo someone would take of their lover. I snap my gaze forward and shake my head. It might be my imagination, but I swear I can hear the poem in my pocket rustling, and I'm afraid that he'll hear the words.

"There's so many books here," the boy calls from behind me.

"It is a book store," I say, sarcasm surprisingly unmarred by any form of stuttering. The boy grabs my shoulder and pulls himself forward so we're walking side by side. We can barely fit in the cramped aisle. 

"I know that," he says, then shoves my shoulder playfully before dropping his hand. My heart trips in my chest. He's grinning.

"Can I confess something?" I ask. He looks at me, half-turning his head. I take the action as a yes.