What is love? That’s a question I’ve always wondered. I mean, you see love in the movies. It’s always so sweet and cutesy and romantic, where the guy always gets the girl. But does life actually work like that?
Absolutely fucking not.
Some of you may ask, “well, how do you possibly know this?” I know this because it’s what the book told me.
The book itself is a beautifully strange concept. From what I can read, it always finds it’s way to desperate in their moment of need, and always seems to help. How does it do this? I have no clue. But, I mean, it also did the same to me, and the universe works in weird ways, so why shouldn’t it work like this? It makes sense in a way.
I came into possession of this book - well, I should say really, the book came into possession of me approximately 2 months ago in my haven, a little place called wilkins.
I was meandering down the dimly-lit isles of my local bookstore, mahogany shelves on either side holding me close in a protective embrace between them. I could feel the tips of my fingers gently trace across the spines of the novels, feeling each book shiver beneath my cold touch. With every shiver and stretch, a small cloud of dust was released, free from previously being bound within fragile pages. The musty smell that it let off wasn’t a bad scent necessarily, but it takes a very niche person to appreciate the stories and history that these books excrete.
Very few people I knew were able to appreciate this, so it was mostly just me wandering these halls alone. I didn’t mind that though, in a way it was very peaceful - it was a nice place to unwind. The store was mostly deserted, quiet enough that the sound of your heartbeat would be echoing down the isles. Though, sometimes i saw old man joe stocking the shelves, but with a polite smile and curt?? nod, we both went on our individual paths through this ___ maze. I’d rather not have any more interaction with him then this - the way his dark eyes stares directly into my soul unnerves me a bit.
Also I occasionally see another woman, I don’t know her name but I liked to call her Elle, like Elle woods. She couldn’t have been more than 23, always clad in the same pink leather miniskirt and matching tube top, a white fur coat slung around her shoulders. Honestly, I have no clue what she would be doing in a place like this, but with Joe’s age, his eyesight isn’t what it once was, meaning he occasionally makes some very expensive books very cheap. I assume elle is here looking for some cheap textbooks - I don’t blame the girl, some of those books can go for a couple of hundred second-hand. I really don’t see the point of professors requiring them, but oh well. When Elle saw me, she always gave me a bright smile, which always seemed to make my day a little better. Elle deserves to be in a better place than this.
Those were the only two people I regularly saw. Although, every once in a while a curious tourist popped their head in or a young family came to ask for directions after they got lost, but nobody else really stuck around. It always got me wondering how Joe earnt enough money to keep the shop up and running - but oh well, that’s none of my business really.
Ah yes, back to the book.
I found it one rainy December afternoon. I walked into the store as I normally do, the small little bell on the frame chiming, announcing my entrance to old joe. As I shook my umbrella off and put it in the stand wooden stand next to Joe’s desk, something on the counter caught my attention. It was a small, hardback journal - like the ones crafted in the 1800’s, and you could still see the delicate stitchwork keeping all the pages trapped together rather than flying around the room. I traced my finger along the spine, wiping away a thin layer of dust to read ama me in small gold italics. I looked over the side and front in search of a price tag, wiping away dust as I did so. I flipped the book over to its back, and fully checked over it again, but there was still no price tag in sight.
“Joe?” I called out into the abyss of bookshelves, “how much is the ama me book on your desk?”
As much as I didn’t like talking to the grumpy old bastard, he’d be the only person who knows how much it would be.
“It’s free if you leave now and let me close on time for once!” An angry voice groaned from within the ocean of literature.
I felt my cheeks flush red - I did have a tendency to stay a little after closing, but this place seemed to have its own measurement of time.
“Okay okay, I’m leaving now, bye Joe!” I hurriedly explained, grabbing both my book and umbrella. Once I heard a familiar grunt in return, I opened the door and stepped out into the petrichoric street and started to make my way home down the cobbled alleyway.
Little did I know, this day would fling my life to a whole new axis.