Breaking and Entering

No one looks good in winter, not even remotely. I had this thought after a long day of winter bullshit: bundling up, stacking firewood, and braving the winter wind for some much-dreaded Christmas shopping. Now, it was a mere twenty-two degrees outside, and I had about had it with the cold. My cheeks were pink, burned with wind. My hair tried to dry itself when I walked in, an effort to fight off that cold snap outside and the reluctant traces of snow falling from the darkened sky. This last stop in town was a local bookstore turned brewery. The entire first floor was loaded with antique furniture and shelves full of books that capped at the cathedral ceilings. The second floor, a loft above, had been converted into a small bar a few years ago. I started looking for a book while bigger flakes started to fall, at least from my view of the front window. The storefront was loaded with bestsellers, popular romances and thrillers that I was sure had barely been edited. Not a trace of creativity there in that storefront display, it contained books by those authors who put them out on shelves with the frequency that one might light up a fireplace on a twenty-two-degree night—often as fuck, I like to say. And, notwithstanding, all while releasing a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. I digress.

I passed that display and made my way to the back row of bookshelves; the first floor on this snowy evening was almost library-quiet. I did my usual thing I’d do whenever I stopped in, checking out whatever there was to offer from the non-generic section. Literature. Classics. Something I’d start reading but maybe never finish. I shivered a remaining cold chill when my hand reached for a book, and I slid it out and glanced through it. This was my habit, and I’d slide it back into its slot on the shelf and move on to something else until I found one that interested me. Only today was different from every other day I did this because today I could hear a disturbance, a vibration, something. For every book I slid back into place on the shelf, I’d hear another slide out of place on the shelf behind it. I’d definitely call it a disturbance but maybe not a mysterious one because the books weren’t simply falling to the floor. Someone must have been on the other side, doing the same as I. As snow started to stick on the sidewalks outside, this sliding process continued. Just two people harmoniously sliding books onto and off of bookshelves, until finally—

“Sorry,” I whispered, realizing I’d pulled a book from the same slot as its counterpart on the other side. Glasses met my eyes. He shook his head and laughed silently while I hurried to put my book back where it belonged. I hadn’t even turned the pages. I hadn’t even decided if I was interested.

“How do you know that’s not the right one?” he asked quietly, and I looked down at the tips of my shoes, still wet with snow. I heard a shuffle and a slide, and, thinking fast, I caught the book as it fell from the shelf. He’d pushed it toward me. I took a breath and let go of a reluctant sigh, holding the book in my hands and spreading it cover to cover.

“What?” I said, somehow still whispering, shocked as I was.

“You keep turning the pages. I didn’t hear that this time.”

“Oh,” I whispered, and I nodded. I looked down at the open book splayed in my hands and started skimming through it, wholly engulfed in figuring out if it was the right one as he’d said. I felt his eyes on me. “Can I help you?” I added matter-of-factly, peering through the slot and seeing his glasses once more. We were at eye level.

“Oh, you work here?”

“What? No,” I said, scoffing with irritation. I rolled my eyes and went back to flipping through. It seemed interesting. I moved to put the book back on the shelf, but he stopped me, sliding another book through to me.

“Here, this might help you,” he offered.

“Seriously?” I said, now having a little bit of an attitude. “I thought you were the one who needed help.” I took the book he’d pushed through to my side of the shelf, and I looked down at the cover. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. “How to Talk to Strangers?”

“Seems fitting,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe you should come over to my side.”

“Because you think I don’t know how to talk to strangers?”

“Because I think you belong in the self-help section,” he said, and I could practically hear him smirking. I huffed and shoved the book back to him.

“I don’t need help,” I said quickly, and some lady an aisle or two over shushed me. “I don’t need help,” I repeated, now whispering. “I’m good.” Before I put the second book back in place, I had a little more to add. “I’d invite you to come over and join me in perusing the classics since I don’t need any assistance talking to strangers, but you seem pretty tied up over there in self-help—and rightfully so. What, are you looking for some riveting, instructional nonfiction on where to find the clitoris?”

Okay, so that was a pretty low blow. I heard the sound of laughter—real laughter. He had a cute laugh that didn’t nearly combat how irritating and abrasive he was.

“No, it was actually the asshole I was trying to locate, and when I pulled out that last book, I think I found one,” he said smartly.

“Okay, I’m the asshole,” I said dramatically. The lady shushed me again, her shush this time matching my level of drama. “I’m not the one reprimanding strangers on their approach to conversation. I’ve no obligation to talk to you.”

“Yet you’re continuing to do so,” he said. “What does that say about you?”

“It says more about you than it does about me. What are you, a therapist?”

“No,” he said with a shrug, and he placed the book he’d been holding back on the shelf, cutting off our communication. I reached in and grabbed it, pulling it over to my side.

“I wasn’t done talking,” I said.

“Clearly,” he chuckled.

“Seriously, I don’t understand where you get off—” My jaw dropped when I looked at the cover of the book he’d placed back on the shelf, the one I’d just grabbed in a hurry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“That I was perusing literature on how to find the clitoris?” he asked. “I wasn’t. That’s for you.”

“What do you mean, it’s for me?” I asked, furrowing my brows.

“For tonight, because I’m sure you’ll be spending it alone.”

“Oh, wow. Such a good burn,” I said with a fake laugh. Another shush erupted from an aisle over.

“There’s a book for that, too,” he said, and he quickly dipped down and grabbed one from the bottom shelf and passed it through.

“STDs? Really?” I asked, growing more irritated. “What, do you have the shelves memorized or something? Maybe you’re the one who works here. I don’t want the STD book, and I don’t want the—”

“—There’s valuable information in there on symptoms that can present in a variety of different ways leading to misdiagnosis,” he said. “UTIs, for instance.” I passed the STD, or UTI, book back through the slot, followed by the guide to female pleasure.

“I’m not interested.”

“Not interesting in educating yourself?” he asked.

“Not interested in having a conversation about venereal disease with a total stranger,” I said bluntly. “Might I suggest you read How to Talk to Strangers.”

“I’ve read that one.”

“Yet you took nothing from it,” I said dramatically, and I searched the shelves for something to pass through the slot. I found one. “Here, this one’s for you.” I shoved a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to him.

“You’re telling me to go to hell?” he chuckled.

“You got that?” I asked, surprised and suddenly more interested in arguing with him than I was in anything any of these books had to offer—especially now that I knew he was privy to my little inside joke.

“I got it. I just don’t know why you’d want to read that.”

“What do you mean?” I said curiously.

“That old shit,” he said, and he passed it back. “Do you read it because someone tells you it’s supposed to be an integral part of our learning of literature?”

“A professor?”

“Great guess, but no.”

“To answer your question,” I continued, “I prefer things like this over the run-of-the-mill bullshit these authors are putting out today. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding,” I said in a condescending tone. He chuckled, shook his head, and filled the slot with a book—discontinuing our conversation once again.

“Um, hello,” I said theatrically, pulling out books left and right and making a stack on the floor at my feet. And suddenly, he was gone. “Weird,” I whispered, and I grabbed the books from the floor and started filing everything away on the shelves.

When I cleaned up after myself, I went back to that first book that interested me, the one I’d passed up in place of conversation with a stranger, and I pulled it from the shelf. This was the one I’d take upstairs to the bar. I bent down to pick up my bag from the floor, and a book slid across the shelf and fell. I was quick to catch it before it hit the hardwood with a loud crack, and I looked at the title.

“Oh, that’s real original. Nice try,” I said, looking through the slot and not seeing him. I cocked my head to the side curiously, then slid the book back through and gathered my things. When I stood and turned to leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I gasped, surprised I wasn’t being shushed, and decided not to turn around. “I don’t need dating help, but thanks anyway.”

“Can I buy you a drink upstairs?” he asked. I shook my head, still looking straight ahead at the staircase and register.

“What if I’m not going upstairs; what if I don’t want a drink?” I said.

“That’s perfectly fine. I was hoping you’d argue with me again just so I could offer to buy you a book instead.”

“Why?”

“They’re better for you. Here,” he said, and he held a book in front of me, one I’d never heard of. “You should release that breath you didn’t realize you were holding.”

“I always know when I’m holding my breath; that’s like the stupidest possible—”

He stepped in front of me now, and I bit my tongue. And my lip. No one looks good in winter—except this guy.