cosmos-on-the-cover titles in Chick Lit, vampire cowboys along with demon lovers in Paranormal Romance—with a special display section of eighties classics from Harold Robbins and Jackie Collins. I’d spent days finding them all over the store, behind and between diet books, astrology books, biographies, even Ellery Queen mysteries. Books to make you thin, to take away the pain in your back, to teach you spells, to make you mad or make you cry. Then I picked up an autographed 8 x 10 glossy of Johnny Depp at a garage sale and hung it beneath the Romance section sign. It wasn’t like I’d found a cure for cancer, but getting the Romance section together felt like progress. If anyone were to actually stumble into the Dragonfly, make their way through the obstacle course of boxes and books at the front of the store, and navigate the labyrinth of stacks to the far back corner, I’m sure they’d show their appreciation for all my work by buying many, many romance novels.
I’d moved a Kik-Step stool back here, anticipating moments like I had now where I could spend a little time with the book. A chapter here, a few pages there. I felt like I owed it to the novel to actually read it again after all these years. I could see why people were so critical of it. It wasn’t very lyrical, and you could tell Lawrence had an ax to grind, which always bugs me. But I could also see why so many, like Henry and Catherine, embraced it. It wasn’t just the sex, it was the stark longing that drew me in. Wanting someone, thinking of him all day, and then letting yourself be in love. I wanted that kind of longing. The dull nothing of losing Bryan was beginning to feel like torture beyond any heartache. I was bored with it.
I was in the middle of a chapter when I felt another presence. I slowly looked up to see Grendel on the shelf above Johnny Depp, looking down at me as if to say, “You mere mortal.” We stared at each other, our eyes locked in an epic battle of human encroachment in the wild animal’s habitat. I’d removed his favorite pile of books, a mountain of Sue Graftons, from a spot in Hugo’s office that got a strong patch of sun between four and five in the afternoon. And ever since he’d lurked, following me along the heights of the bookshelves, like one of Stephen King’s ghosts, waiting for his moment of revenge.
Yowling, he launched himself at me. I jumped up, trying to avoid him, but he got me on the shoulder. I screeched and dropped Lady Chatterley’s Lover , while he bounded from my shoulder to the top of the bookshelves across from us, but not before leaving four deep scratches on my skin that started to bleed through my white T-shirt.
I felt a hand on my arm and looked up to see Rajhit standing next to me.
“Are you mortally wounded?”
“I’ll make it back to base, Captain.”
He reached around to his back pocket, and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen one. Leaving it in a quarter fold, he slid it under the collar of my T-shirt and pressed it down on my wound. I could still smell the heat of the sun in the cotton of his shirt. He leaned his head in closer to examine the scratch. Around us, I could hear the sounds of people moving through the stacks and sliding books off the shelves. An image of the store came to me, as if someone had lifted the roof off. I looked down at the maze of stacks, watching people moving to and fro, gazing at the shelves, their heads slightly tilted to read the spines. And there were Rajhit and me, in a dark corner, close and still.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” he said. “Though maybe not bleeding.”
“Hugo should give me hazard pay.”
We both smiled and did that small puff of air thing that substitutes for a laugh when you’re trying to be quiet and unseen. We stood there, my cheek near enough to his to feel warmth from him. He blew a tender breath on my wound through my shirt. It was a small, quiet gesture,
I’d moved a Kik-Step stool back here, anticipating moments like I had now where I could spend a little time with the book. A chapter here, a few pages there. I felt like I owed it to the novel to actually read it again after all these years. I could see why people were so critical of it. It wasn’t very lyrical, and you could tell Lawrence had an ax to grind, which always bugs me. But I could also see why so many, like Henry and Catherine, embraced it. It wasn’t just the sex, it was the stark longing that drew me in. Wanting someone, thinking of him all day, and then letting yourself be in love. I wanted that kind of longing. The dull nothing of losing Bryan was beginning to feel like torture beyond any heartache. I was bored with it.
I was in the middle of a chapter when I felt another presence. I slowly looked up to see Grendel on the shelf above Johnny Depp, looking down at me as if to say, “You mere mortal.” We stared at each other, our eyes locked in an epic battle of human encroachment in the wild animal’s habitat. I’d removed his favorite pile of books, a mountain of Sue Graftons, from a spot in Hugo’s office that got a strong patch of sun between four and five in the afternoon. And ever since he’d lurked, following me along the heights of the bookshelves, like one of Stephen King’s ghosts, waiting for his moment of revenge.
Yowling, he launched himself at me. I jumped up, trying to avoid him, but he got me on the shoulder. I screeched and dropped Lady Chatterley’s Lover , while he bounded from my shoulder to the top of the bookshelves across from us, but not before leaving four deep scratches on my skin that started to bleed through my white T-shirt.
I felt a hand on my arm and looked up to see Rajhit standing next to me.
“Are you mortally wounded?”
“I’ll make it back to base, Captain.”
He reached around to his back pocket, and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen one. Leaving it in a quarter fold, he slid it under the collar of my T-shirt and pressed it down on my wound. I could still smell the heat of the sun in the cotton of his shirt. He leaned his head in closer to examine the scratch. Around us, I could hear the sounds of people moving through the stacks and sliding books off the shelves. An image of the store came to me, as if someone had lifted the roof off. I looked down at the maze of stacks, watching people moving to and fro, gazing at the shelves, their heads slightly tilted to read the spines. And there were Rajhit and me, in a dark corner, close and still.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” he said. “Though maybe not bleeding.”
“Hugo should give me hazard pay.”
We both smiled and did that small puff of air thing that substitutes for a laugh when you’re trying to be quiet and unseen. We stood there, my cheek near enough to his to feel warmth from him. He blew a tender breath on my wound through my shirt. It was a small, quiet gesture,
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