An Untitled NaNoWriMo Project.
We need a title. And a genre. And possibly plot points. Definitely an editor or two, since we can't show it to any of the people we know. And just feedback in general. Please help.
We should probably warn that it's PG-13 this chapter for swearing and minorly mature content.
"There was some movie on last night," Emma starts conversationally, pushing herself up onto the counter, between the cash register and a small bronze statue of Christopher Columbus. One leg was outstretched, and the opposite arm was raised, as if the little antique man would soon be striding manfully off the desk. "It had Kevin Costner and apparently a lot of women who may have been strippers, and I have no clue what it was about. I sat and watched it for twenty minutes, and I was still so confused, you don't even know." She leans to grab her saffron-coloured ball of yarn and her knitting needles from an open drawer behind the desk, and the neckline of her oversized burgundy sweater slips over one pale shoulder.
In my nearby chair, I laugh, bringing my tea to my lips. Mid-sip, the chuckle somehow becomes a snort, and I spew a stream of milky liquid over the pages of the anthropology textbook in my lap. "Shit!" I rasp out, choking on the droplets of tea clinging to my windpipe. The tea left in the mug sloshes out and soaks my forearm. "Shit shit shit!" I cough, setting my sticky cup on the endtable next to my chair, and pushing the book onto the floor.
Emma raises her eyebrows at me, and pouts out her bottom lip to blow her fringe out of her eyes. "You alright?" she drawls. I nod my head, my throat still smarting, and wipe my mouth with the back of my sticky hand.
Gabe ventures out of the back room, wearing his usual outfit of worn-out, faded t-shirt over dark jeans, and carrying a box of inventory for shelving. He looks over at me. "Did you just snort?" he smirks, setting the box on the counter and motioning for the pair of scissors resting next to my mug.
Ignoring his unspoken request for the scissors, I peel off my soaked sweater and adjust the shirt beneath. I've always snorted when I laugh, and every time I do, for as long as he’s known me, Gabe always asks the same question. "Did you just snort?"
Emma raises her eyebrows again, this time at us both, then gently places her knitting aside and slides off the counter. She used to bemoan not being able to raise just one of her eyebrows, which, she said, was sexier and more ironic. Eventually, she gave up practicing in front of the mirror, and resigned herself to the fact that its simply not a trick she’s going to be able to add to her bag. Now, she simply conveys different thoughts with each lift of her brows. The look she was currently directing at Gabe and I said, ‘Really?’ in a very sarcastic fashion. She crosses the room to where I am, considerately hands me a hairtie off her wrist so I can pull back the now tea-soaked strands hanging in front of my face, and picks up the scissors. She then goes back, hands Gabe the scissors, pushes herself back onto the desk, and resumes her knitting.
"You didn't have to go get them," Gabe says. "That's what we keep Sophie around for," he mocks, raising one eyebrow and quirking his mouth at me. I give him a rude hand gesture, preoccupied as I struggle to get my hair up and inspect the damage done to my textbook all at the same time.
"Yeah," Emma answers, "but if I didn't, the two of you would have played High Noon for the next twenty minutes, Sophie wouldn't have studied, and you wouldn't have opened the box. Which is bad for me, because I can't very well count my purls and knits with all that tension in the room. So it was purely selfish, and not at all for your sake," she finishes triumphantly.
I cradle the textbook in the crook of my arm to inspect the damage. The pages are clumped together with a lethal combination of hot tea-laced water, half-dissolved sugar, and milk, pale brown stains spreading over the heavy black text. I push the breath out of my nose harshly, twisting my lips in annoyance. I crane my neck to look around the bookshop. "Where's the fan? I want to try and get this book dry before class later." The position of the shop's one cooling device is moved so constantly that I've given up trying to remember where it is.
Emma looks up from her knitting, wrinkling her brow as she tries to remember. "Um....I think," she says tentatively, pausing momentarily to squint into thin air, as if she could see it, "that I had it near that one chair that's next to that one floor lamp maybe?"
I sigh in exasperation. "Which floor lamp, dear? There are, like, four of them." I grimace as I unstick my hands from the book to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
"The cheapish, sort of metallic, one with the frosted plastic that we got at Tesco a couple of months ago." Emma pushes her bangs out of her eyes, shaking her head in frustration as they fall back into place. She drops her knitting into her lap, and reaches into her bag that is sitting on the desk next to her, digging around inside with frantic, jerky movements that show she's looking for something she feels is crucial. She comes up empty-handed.
"There are some in the zippered pocket of my school bag." I motion to the hook by the door where I've slung my rain splattered shoulder bag and umbrella. "Are you talking about the lamp Isobel put over near that illustrated Lives of the Saints, the really old one she bought on eBay?"
Gabe looks up from slicing the tape on the box of inventory as Emma hops down from the counter. "The one," he asks me, "near that really ugly painting of the London skyline you bought from that guy in Seven Dials when we were in the city for your birthday?" He makes a face, recalling the sharp, smudgy lines of the monstrous work of art.
I smile. "Isn't it so hideous? I love it!"
Emma and Gabe exchange a look they think I don't see. "Yes," she says stridently. "It is hideous. We hate it, and we want you to know that if you come across it looking charred and burnt one day, or it goes suspiciously missing, it wasn't us."
Gabe nods his head in agreement, and watches amusedly as I wander towards the back of the shop to look for the fan. Emma wanders over to my school bag, hanging on the misshapen, Art Deco coat rack by the door, and begins to rummage around. I lose sight of them both among the stacks and piles of books, and just as I've located the fan, nowhere near my painting, I hear a yell from the front of the shop.
"Wait. What did you think I was looking for in my bag?"
"Umm, weren't you looking for, you know, those things?" I shout back, as I yank the fan plug out of the wall. I grip the base, and walk towards the front, trailing the cord behind me. "Because if you are, they're in the inside zipper pocket."
I set the fan down next to my chair, and begin searching around for an outlet nearby. "You know," I hear from my left, "you can say tampons around me. I'm not going to be offended."
I whirl around to face Gabe, my cheeks burning. "I was trying to be polite, okay? You don't need to know that about Emma."
Gabe laughs, as he stacks books on the counter. "You honestly think, after all these years, I don't know when it's Emma's time of the month?" He shakes his head at me.
My jaw drops, and as I look over, I see Emma is just as speechless over by the door. After a second though, her jaw sets, and her eyes narrow. "Okay, first, let's not talk about me like I'm not here. Second, that isn't even what I was looking for. I needed bobby pins to get my fucking bangs out of my face. And third," she says, focusing all her attention on Gabe's amused smirk, "you know when my period is?!"
My cheeks ache from the intensity of my blush. "I--" I stammer out, trying to
handle both the fan and my textbook--a considerable feat considering how clumsy I am. "I--really, I--didn't--I'm so--argh!" I stop trying to apologize and wrestle with the oversized fan tucked awkwardly under my arm. The English language fails me regularly; I've learnt to stop trying to fight it.
Emma moves her glare from Gabe to me, righteous indignation softening to bemused exasperation as she takes in my arms contorted around my cargo. She raises her eyebrows. "Really?" she asks, her voice lilting as her incredulity at my awkward struggling lends a mocking cadence to her question. "You can't carry two things at once?"
She sighs, pulling the fan from my grasp. My palm smacks against my thigh as my arm goes limp; the soft sound echoes lightly across the entryway of the bookshop, and Gabe laughs, smiling at me. "She never could." His grin is contagious, and Emma looks up from plugging in the fan, face lit up, her eyes warm on his. I pout petulantly and roll my eyes, once again the object of their teasing. The corner of my textbook dangles from my hand, swaying idly. Ever since high school they've taken the piss about how clumsy I am, or how forgetful, or how I sometimes say utterly idiotic things. After so many years, I know they don't mean anything by it, and most of the time I give as good as I get, but I can't help the heat of anger rising up and reddening my cheeks with a crimson blush. I stare at the floor and bite my lip, tapping the book against my leg in frustration.
Suddenly, the jingle bell tied to the door with jolly green yarn tinkles: a customer. I glance up to see Dean sauntering in, his smile wide and open and seeming to me entirely fake. "Hey there!" he calls, too brightly and too loudly, making me wince. In a shaft of honeyed late afternoon light streaming in from the window, I see the dust particles swirling in the heavy air shift wildly, disturbed by Dean's entry and booming voice. He shifts a stack of thick magazines under his arm.
Gabe mumbles an unclear greeting, his head tucked deep inside an inventory box like an ostrich in the sand. "Hiya," I say, my voice cool, distaste acting as a balm to the stinging embarassment in my cheeks. I walk deliberately past, avoiding Dean's cheerful gaze, and lay my sticky book beneath the fan and flicking the switch. The gentle hum of the electricity whirs into gear as the blades start turning. The breeze ruffles the pleats in my tartan skirt.
"Hey!" Emma beams sweetly to her boyfriend. "Watcha need?" She pulls the shoulder of her sweater up as she talks; as soon as she moves, it slips back down again.
Gabe's eyes are on Dean as the other man looks greedily at the paleness of Emma's skin; I watch Gabe, and see his hands clench on the scissors. He can't stand to see her with Dean; actually he can't stand to see her with anyone.
"Dean?" He hasn't answered her question, just stands there, eyes vacant, transfixed by her shoulder, and Emma arches her eyebrows quizically. "Do you need something?"
I duck behind the counter and sidle up to Gabe, taking the scissors from his clenched fist. A tense, upset look darkens his features; he knows Dean's undressing her with his eyes, and is ready to shove him through the leaded windows and onto the pavement outside. Agh, I think, patting my friend's arm sympathetically. How can she not know. Poor Gabe.
Dean blinks, brought from his reverie by Emma's tone. "N-no." He stumbles over the word, and I let out a quiet snort of laughter, smirking at Gabe, who looks back, frown quirking into a devilish grin. "I...uh..." He thrusts the stack of magazines into Emma's arms. "You left these at my flat, I thought you might need them for work or..." he trails off, "something." Nothing else to say, he runs a hand over his shortly cropped mahogany hair, and gives her a leering smile.
I pull a pen from a cup on the counter and sneak it into my mouth, biting down on the end as Emma regards the glossy covers of her bridal magazines. "Um...thanks?" Her voice runs up: she's confused by Dean's awkward, flailing presentation of the dress lookbooks. "I do need these. For a client. Thanks."
Dean looks hastily at the door, presumedly sensing the tension in the room. "I, uh, I actually have to be going, I've got work," he glances at his watch, "in fifteen minutes. I'll see you later, okay?" He owns a restaurant a few streets over that Emma sometimes does consults at: that’s how they met. He often says one of the benefits of being owner is that he only has to show up for the dinner rush. The rest of us think he’s a colossal git, but Emma adores everyone she dates for the metaphorical fifteen minutes that she’s dating them, so we all tolerate him. She hasn’t stuck with any one guy since that jerk Clayton destroyed her, and so even Gabe is pleased about the fact that she’s dating happily.
Emma nods, cradling the magazines. "Kay." Dean kisses her cheek perfunctorily, exiting the shop with a tinkle of the bell.
Gabe looks at Emma, Emma looks at Gabe. "Shut. Up," she says, hoisting herself onto the counter and grabbing at her knitting. He looks at me archly and I snigger, settling myself into the desk chair, swivelling it back and forth with my stockinged foot.
"What do you see in him anyway?" Gabe enquires.
Emma continues to stare into her void of yarn, studiously making a point of not answering. "He was a Scout as a boy," I say, tapping my pen against my bottom lip, grinning, my voice infused with teasing and mockery. "He can tie really great knots."
Emma turns to glare at me, but her eyes catch Gabe's instead, and he arches his brows. "Really? You like being tied up?"
"With fisherman's rope," I offer helpfully, smirking. They take the piss regularly, but I'm not entirely devoid of ammunition, and teasing Emma is my wonderfully malicious hobby; usually the most fun I have all day. It's my special mission, like Arthur and the Questing Beast.
Her dark, flushed scowl turns on me. "Where is it exactly you keep your teacher's paddle, Sophie?"
I colour carmine, but smile back unflinchingly. "In my wardrobe," I divulge, calling to mind the high polish of the cherrywood cudgel, slightly smaller than a cricket bat, but shaped similarly. It was tucked beneath a stack of folded quilts, next to the riding crop left by a former boyfriend who had worked at a stable in High Blantyre.
Gabe's gaze softens as his thoughts deepen. The late afternoon sun streams in through the glass at the storefront, warming the planes of his cheeks and illuminating the stray gold in his dark stubble, his eyes melting to molten silver in the amber glow. "Hmmm. I always knew you had a thing for feet, Em, but I never knew you liked to be tied up….interesting…”
She bites her top lip in frustration and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, as if praying to whatever gods are listening for patience. “Alright, guys, look. My weird, or not so weird, kinks are really none of your concern. Because I only slept with Sophie that one time that neither of us can remember, and as far as I know, I’ve never slept with you, Gabe. Okay? Okay.”
He raises an eyebrow as I choke on an inhale. She’s really not supposed to tell people about that. We’re still not sure how it happened. At the time we were freaked, and we avoided each other for weeks, and Emma swore off alcohol, and we both decided not to be lesbians. Then we resolved never to talk about it again. So she obviously failed at that. And as I struggled to erase the memory from my brain again, Gabe walked over and patted her on the shoulder mockingly. “We’ll just discount that one time we made out on a dare, okay? I’m sure you’re right. Just because my tongue has intimate knowledge of your mouth doesn’t entitle me to know your sexual habits.”
Within seconds, the not-quite-musical bell on our door had rung merrily as Isobel walked in, and Gabe had retreated back behind the counter, rubbing his arm. I frown quizzically at Emma. "She punched me," Gabe offers, his voice shot through with annoyance and pain. "AND she stepped on my foot. Shrew."
Isobel lingers in the doorway. The shadows have started to fall outside, wrapping around her frame, and only the left side of her body is lit. “I had the most awkward sex of all time last night.”
I burst into laughter, while at the same time trying to arrange my face into an appropriately sympathetic expression, stepping towards her.
I burst into laughter, while at the same time trying to arrange my face into an appropriately sympathetic expression, stepping towards her. "Oh, honey!" I say, pouting exaggeratedly on my grin, tucking a damp curl behind her small ear. "Was Perfect Adam that bad in bed?"
She lets out a groan of frustration. "I don't even know what it was. It was just awkward. There's no other way to describe it. Painfully awkward. It was like those really awful scenes in movies. It was movie sex. And not even good movie sex, not like The Tudors. Horrible movie sex. Not quite as bad as American Pie, but close. So so close." She leans back against a rickety bookcase, volumes stacked haphazardly on the shelves, and causes the whole apparatus to shift dangerously on its wobbly feet, then slumps down to the heavy Turkish rug over the old floorboards. Her elbows perch on her knees, heels of her hands pressed into her eyes, like a distraught reinterpretation of Rodin's Thinker.
I walk to pour her a mug of tea from the electric kettle behind the counter. A spoonful of sugar, a splash of milk, and voila, instant comfort. Pushing it into her hands, I join her on the floor. "Je suis desole, ma petite." I croon sympathetically, leaning my head against her shoulder.
Gabe leans over the counter, always eager to talk about someone else’s miserable sex life. "Wasn't he the guy you were so crazy about? You thought he was The One?" His inflection adds special emphasis to the last two words; finger quotes show his scepticism."There isn't just one person for everyone, Isobel, you shouldn't focus so much on that."
Emma looks up from her knitting. "He's right. Also, I know he felt perfect in every other respect, but sexual satisfaction is a huge part of a relationship. Don't settle for someone shitty in bed just because he...I dunno, knows how to wash dishes." She shrugs, peers at the tangle of yarn in her hands, and then meets Isobel's eyes, smiling. "If it makes you feel better, this afghan is for you. I'm gonna add purple stripes in."
Isobel swallows a mouthful of tea. "Thanks. Ugh. I dunno, he just felt so...right. And I thought that after so much time together, since we connect so well, the sex would be great.”
“Apparently not?” I query, hoping she’ll take the opportunity to keep venting.
“No. I blushed the whole time, and he was so into it, and then I had to fake it, and I almost forgot to..." Gabe sniggers, and she hurls a pamphlet at him. "Just because you’d be perfectly happy to even get a fake orgasm out of a girl, doesn’t make it okay."
I shift uncomfortably beside her, aware that my limbs are falling painfully asleep beneath me. Moving carefully so I won't tumble the bookcase behind us, I turn and lie back to stare up at the strings of Christmas lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Last year, in a fit of Yuletide fervour, Emma and Isobel and I had climbed atop the bookcases and stapled the multicoloured strands to the low wooden ceiling. Gabe had come in from running some errands to see the shop alive with rainbow hues. The first thing he wanted to know was which of us had thrown up a box of fluorescent crayons all over his timbered roof, and then we’d shared the sweet buns he'd picked up on his way back from Tesco.
That night we had all gathered in the small flat I share with Isobel and Emma, the three of us, and Gabe, and Kat, and decorated our short Christmas tree and lit Emma’s menorah. Later, though, we never bothered to take down the lights in the shop, so there they stayed, a testament to our collective childhood fascination with Lite-Brite.
Staring up from my position on the threadbare Turkish rug, purchased right after Emma followed us to Glasgow, I pull at the thick, stretchy material of my tights, yanking them back into place from where they've ridden up. I raise myself up onto my elbows, sighing delightedly at the comforting, musty smell of paper coming from the thousands of books piled onto the shelves, letting my eyes drift lazily over the room. The last remnants of honeyed sunlight filter through the front windows. It illuminates floating dust particles wafting aimlessly in the quiet breeze, made by the combined efforts of our breathing, in and out, simultaneously easy from so many hours of thoughtless togetherness.
On days like this, with all of us sitting silently together, enveloped by the encroaching shadows that lengthen as the sun sets in the late afternoon, I'm struck by the lasting familiarity of it all. We've been friends for so long, yet the basics haven’t changed. We've gone off to college, we've drank, and smoked, and woken up awkwardly in the wrong bed after long nights of sex none of us can remember. We've lost touch, and moved across the world, fought and yelled and thrown things, and yet we all ended up back together, sitting in a bookshop owned by Gabe of all people, in Glasgow, with the light fading rapidly and the damp cold of Scotland seeping up through the creaking floors. Looking around at them, all engrossed in their tasks, a rush of affection for them warms my chest; I smile at their distractedness. Beside me, Isobel slurps forlornly on her tea. Her dark eyes are filled with moisture, and she tugs on a dark curl, limp from the rain drying in her hair. Emma perches atop the counter, one bare foot tucked beneath her, the other swinging idly back and forth. Her heel hits against the thin grain of the wood; she stares, intently focused, into her tangle of yarn, knitting needles clacking together in a strange tattoo as she blows her fringe out of her eyes. Behind her, Gabe looks up from his box of inventory and stretches his arms above him, yawning. The hem of the old Sex Pistols t-shirt he's had since I met him our junior year of high school, the one Emma's mended too many times to count, hitches up his belly, exposing a thin white strip of skin. Emma eyes it, distractedly and unconsciously, the way she has since I met them. He surveys the shop, running his palm over the few days worth of stubble on his cheeks. I tip my head back as the rest of the light fades from the windows, smiling at the rainbow coloured glare above me, bright as neon before Emma pulls the chain of the lamp beside her. The grandfather clock strikes, tolling high and off-pitch. Once. Twice. Five times, the tinkle of the doorbell cutting in on the last strike.
A nervous looking man ambles in, his black hair sparkling with rain under the low lighting. "Hi. Are you open?" His question is tentative, and I stand up, stretching, and smile at him gently.
"Yeah, sorry, it’s just dark in here." I stumble past him to the door, next to which is the switch for the overhead lighting, flicking it on and flooding the place with artificial glow. "I'm Sophie. Looking for something specific, are you?"
"Stephen," he says after a moment's hesitation. "Um, yeah, I am actually.” He scratches nervously at the back of his neck, his navy peacoat stretching open to reveal a sensible sort of sweater made of some sort of soft fabric. I fight the urge to pet his sweater, and wait for him to tell me what book he's looking for, admiring the messy dark nest of his hair that’s sticking up at odd angles from where he ran his fingers through it while it was wet with rain. His skin shines pale and soft under the fluorescent lighting, his cheekbones high, his eyes a bright, brilliant blue. "I'm doing an American history degree up at the university, and I have to do a paper on the American Indian situation in the seventeenth century. I've looked all over, and I can't find what I need." His ears colour as he talks, scarlet darkening the outer rim of the shell of his earlobe. "Do you have anything on the Pequot Wars?"
Before I can answer, Emma's head shoots up. "YES!" she cries enthusiastically. She has a weird affection for the Pequot Massacre. She, Gabe, and I studied it together in school, but Emma really absorbed it. "Come with me, I can show you where it is." She tosses down her knitting and jumps off the counter, motioning for Stephen to follow her through the maze of bookshelves. He looks slightly frightened by her enthusiasm, but gives me a small smile and a wave before ducking behind Emma to the outer darkness of the back of the shop. I heave a sigh at his retreating figure, and tug at the hem of my skirt.
"Jesus!" Isobel shouts out, as they retreat. "Did that clock strike five a few minutes ago? You've got that class on Tudor history, Sophie, and I've got a surgery to observe. That's what I came in for earlier, to let you know so we’d both remember."
"Oh, shit! Um..." I search around the floor for my shoes, shoving my feet into the flats hastily, yanking my coat from the rack and throwing it over my shoulders, pushing my arms into the sleeves. "Gabe? Isn’t Emma's consult at six-ish, too?"
"Oh, yeah!" He leans over the counter, reading the datebook she leaves in the shop so we can all keep track of each others’ activities. "Em!” he shouts into the depths of the store. “You've got that consult! Hurry up!"
Emma's voice comes across the shop. "Oh, damn! Did you get that book, Stephen?" A few seconds later she's bounding out of the shelves, Stephen trailing behind cautiously, alarmed by the sudden flurry of activity. "Are you guys ready?" she asks Isobel and I, putting on her jacket and grabbing up her bag, slipping her feet into a pair of Gabe's old dress shoes, unable to find her own. They're too big for her, falling apart and scuffed up, but that hardly seems to matter as she's running late.
"I can ring that up for you," Gabe calls to Stephen over the din. Isobel holds open the door, the bell sounds, and Emma gives Gabe a swift hug over the counter before rushing out into the street. I squeeze Gabe and smile timidly at Stephen, whispering a soft farewell before Isobel calls an impatient "Sophie..." in my direction and I tumble over the floorboards and the threshhold, the door swinging shut behind me with a jangle. The sky outside has darkened to the slate blue of twilight, faint streaks of orange visible on the horizon. The street is slick and wet, and the air is heavy with a mist of precipitation, cold and clean and refreshed by the rain. I breathe deeply and blink moisture out of my lashes, walking along the slippery pavements precariously, gripping Emma for support as we move forward in the dim haze of light spilling out from storefronts and the head lamps of the cars, splattering thin droplets of water on our legs.
I squint into the rain at the street signs, separating from Emma as I recognize Church Street. We all pause at the corner for a moment, huddled together against the chill, talking over the slick wet sound of tires on asphalt. “So, are you cooking tonight, then?” I ask her. “Because if you are, you’d better call Gabe and Kat, but if you’re not, Isobel and I will pick something up on our way back to the flat.”
“Yeah, I’ve really been in the mood for Chinese lately,” Isobel interjects, shivering against me. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and wince as water seeps into my shoe, shooting pins of icy pain up the arch of my foot.
“Alright, then I guess I won’t cook. Plus, I might be running late. Fiona is an unbelievably difficult bride; she’s changed her colors at least four times, and she still has no idea what to clothe her bridesmaids in." Digging in her bag, her hand pulls out something floppy. As she tugs it onto her head and over her ears, I recognise it as one of the knit hats she'd been making all summer, to prepare herself for the onslaught of the Glaswegian winter. I pull a sharp intake of breath in envy, eyeing the warm, soft fabric as my ears freeze so cold it burns. "So just get me something tofu, please, and I’ll see you back home.”
I lift my hand to wave as she continues down the sidewalk, watching as the streetlamps catch the little droplets of rainwater, making them shimmer as they splash up from her too-large shoes while she crosses the puddle-riddled street; the lazy light transforms the beads of moisture into a bright sparkle of stars, fragmenting the pavement around her feet. Isobel and I turn up Church Street, pressing on through the haze of breath that hangs in a fog before us towards the University, the rain soaking our clothes, and dripping through our hair.
As we walk, I glance around at the familiar shops and buildings. The comforting monotony continues until we reach Byres Street, only one street away from the building I have class in. I look up from the cobblestone sidewalk as we take the next corner, skidding slightly until Isobel puts out a hand to stop me, catching my wrist before I tumble. I right myself just shy of a wooden shop door. Beneath a thin layer of dust, the paint is peeling; a handcrafted sign hangs lopsidedly on a rusted nail long ago pounded in to the wood, swaying idly in the thin breeze of frozen air. I squint to make out the notice; the large picture window of this shop is dark and grimy. Through the gloom, words shine as my eyes accustom themselves to the murky light: LIFE PROBLEMS SLOVED HERE, lettered in a spidery blue script. An intriguing declaration; I bite my lip as my hand hovers inches from the door, ready to knock, worrying over the darkness behind the glass.
Isobel tugs sharply on my sleeve to pull me along, harshly squashing my curiosity; we are running late, after all. The shop shall have to wait for another day.
.
Dear Emma, Sophie, and Gabe,
Hey from Zambia! The first thing I did when I got here was visit Victoria Falls, the picture on the front of this card, which is on the border of Zimbabwe. But then, it was back to work converting the heathens. JK. Actually, I feel terrible for the people here. I mean, it’s a beautiful country. But one in five people here have HIV, and they make less than 2 dollars a week. We’re doing all we can, building wells and vaccinating, but I know when we leave, these people will still be suffering. I’ll be in Johannesburg, South Africa, at a summit next week, and I’ll try to email you from the hotel there. Hope you’re all well! Miss you!
Eva
We should probably warn that it's PG-13 this chapter for swearing and minorly mature content.
"There was some movie on last night," Emma starts conversationally, pushing herself up onto the counter, between the cash register and a small bronze statue of Christopher Columbus. One leg was outstretched, and the opposite arm was raised, as if the little antique man would soon be striding manfully off the desk. "It had Kevin Costner and apparently a lot of women who may have been strippers, and I have no clue what it was about. I sat and watched it for twenty minutes, and I was still so confused, you don't even know." She leans to grab her saffron-coloured ball of yarn and her knitting needles from an open drawer behind the desk, and the neckline of her oversized burgundy sweater slips over one pale shoulder.
In my nearby chair, I laugh, bringing my tea to my lips. Mid-sip, the chuckle somehow becomes a snort, and I spew a stream of milky liquid over the pages of the anthropology textbook in my lap. "Shit!" I rasp out, choking on the droplets of tea clinging to my windpipe. The tea left in the mug sloshes out and soaks my forearm. "Shit shit shit!" I cough, setting my sticky cup on the endtable next to my chair, and pushing the book onto the floor.
Emma raises her eyebrows at me, and pouts out her bottom lip to blow her fringe out of her eyes. "You alright?" she drawls. I nod my head, my throat still smarting, and wipe my mouth with the back of my sticky hand.
Gabe ventures out of the back room, wearing his usual outfit of worn-out, faded t-shirt over dark jeans, and carrying a box of inventory for shelving. He looks over at me. "Did you just snort?" he smirks, setting the box on the counter and motioning for the pair of scissors resting next to my mug.
Ignoring his unspoken request for the scissors, I peel off my soaked sweater and adjust the shirt beneath. I've always snorted when I laugh, and every time I do, for as long as he’s known me, Gabe always asks the same question. "Did you just snort?"
Emma raises her eyebrows again, this time at us both, then gently places her knitting aside and slides off the counter. She used to bemoan not being able to raise just one of her eyebrows, which, she said, was sexier and more ironic. Eventually, she gave up practicing in front of the mirror, and resigned herself to the fact that its simply not a trick she’s going to be able to add to her bag. Now, she simply conveys different thoughts with each lift of her brows. The look she was currently directing at Gabe and I said, ‘Really?’ in a very sarcastic fashion. She crosses the room to where I am, considerately hands me a hairtie off her wrist so I can pull back the now tea-soaked strands hanging in front of my face, and picks up the scissors. She then goes back, hands Gabe the scissors, pushes herself back onto the desk, and resumes her knitting.
"You didn't have to go get them," Gabe says. "That's what we keep Sophie around for," he mocks, raising one eyebrow and quirking his mouth at me. I give him a rude hand gesture, preoccupied as I struggle to get my hair up and inspect the damage done to my textbook all at the same time.
"Yeah," Emma answers, "but if I didn't, the two of you would have played High Noon for the next twenty minutes, Sophie wouldn't have studied, and you wouldn't have opened the box. Which is bad for me, because I can't very well count my purls and knits with all that tension in the room. So it was purely selfish, and not at all for your sake," she finishes triumphantly.
I cradle the textbook in the crook of my arm to inspect the damage. The pages are clumped together with a lethal combination of hot tea-laced water, half-dissolved sugar, and milk, pale brown stains spreading over the heavy black text. I push the breath out of my nose harshly, twisting my lips in annoyance. I crane my neck to look around the bookshop. "Where's the fan? I want to try and get this book dry before class later." The position of the shop's one cooling device is moved so constantly that I've given up trying to remember where it is.
Emma looks up from her knitting, wrinkling her brow as she tries to remember. "Um....I think," she says tentatively, pausing momentarily to squint into thin air, as if she could see it, "that I had it near that one chair that's next to that one floor lamp maybe?"
I sigh in exasperation. "Which floor lamp, dear? There are, like, four of them." I grimace as I unstick my hands from the book to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
"The cheapish, sort of metallic, one with the frosted plastic that we got at Tesco a couple of months ago." Emma pushes her bangs out of her eyes, shaking her head in frustration as they fall back into place. She drops her knitting into her lap, and reaches into her bag that is sitting on the desk next to her, digging around inside with frantic, jerky movements that show she's looking for something she feels is crucial. She comes up empty-handed.
"There are some in the zippered pocket of my school bag." I motion to the hook by the door where I've slung my rain splattered shoulder bag and umbrella. "Are you talking about the lamp Isobel put over near that illustrated Lives of the Saints, the really old one she bought on eBay?"
Gabe looks up from slicing the tape on the box of inventory as Emma hops down from the counter. "The one," he asks me, "near that really ugly painting of the London skyline you bought from that guy in Seven Dials when we were in the city for your birthday?" He makes a face, recalling the sharp, smudgy lines of the monstrous work of art.
I smile. "Isn't it so hideous? I love it!"
Emma and Gabe exchange a look they think I don't see. "Yes," she says stridently. "It is hideous. We hate it, and we want you to know that if you come across it looking charred and burnt one day, or it goes suspiciously missing, it wasn't us."
Gabe nods his head in agreement, and watches amusedly as I wander towards the back of the shop to look for the fan. Emma wanders over to my school bag, hanging on the misshapen, Art Deco coat rack by the door, and begins to rummage around. I lose sight of them both among the stacks and piles of books, and just as I've located the fan, nowhere near my painting, I hear a yell from the front of the shop.
"Wait. What did you think I was looking for in my bag?"
"Umm, weren't you looking for, you know, those things?" I shout back, as I yank the fan plug out of the wall. I grip the base, and walk towards the front, trailing the cord behind me. "Because if you are, they're in the inside zipper pocket."
I set the fan down next to my chair, and begin searching around for an outlet nearby. "You know," I hear from my left, "you can say tampons around me. I'm not going to be offended."
I whirl around to face Gabe, my cheeks burning. "I was trying to be polite, okay? You don't need to know that about Emma."
Gabe laughs, as he stacks books on the counter. "You honestly think, after all these years, I don't know when it's Emma's time of the month?" He shakes his head at me.
My jaw drops, and as I look over, I see Emma is just as speechless over by the door. After a second though, her jaw sets, and her eyes narrow. "Okay, first, let's not talk about me like I'm not here. Second, that isn't even what I was looking for. I needed bobby pins to get my fucking bangs out of my face. And third," she says, focusing all her attention on Gabe's amused smirk, "you know when my period is?!"
My cheeks ache from the intensity of my blush. "I--" I stammer out, trying to
handle both the fan and my textbook--a considerable feat considering how clumsy I am. "I--really, I--didn't--I'm so--argh!" I stop trying to apologize and wrestle with the oversized fan tucked awkwardly under my arm. The English language fails me regularly; I've learnt to stop trying to fight it.
Emma moves her glare from Gabe to me, righteous indignation softening to bemused exasperation as she takes in my arms contorted around my cargo. She raises her eyebrows. "Really?" she asks, her voice lilting as her incredulity at my awkward struggling lends a mocking cadence to her question. "You can't carry two things at once?"
She sighs, pulling the fan from my grasp. My palm smacks against my thigh as my arm goes limp; the soft sound echoes lightly across the entryway of the bookshop, and Gabe laughs, smiling at me. "She never could." His grin is contagious, and Emma looks up from plugging in the fan, face lit up, her eyes warm on his. I pout petulantly and roll my eyes, once again the object of their teasing. The corner of my textbook dangles from my hand, swaying idly. Ever since high school they've taken the piss about how clumsy I am, or how forgetful, or how I sometimes say utterly idiotic things. After so many years, I know they don't mean anything by it, and most of the time I give as good as I get, but I can't help the heat of anger rising up and reddening my cheeks with a crimson blush. I stare at the floor and bite my lip, tapping the book against my leg in frustration.
Suddenly, the jingle bell tied to the door with jolly green yarn tinkles: a customer. I glance up to see Dean sauntering in, his smile wide and open and seeming to me entirely fake. "Hey there!" he calls, too brightly and too loudly, making me wince. In a shaft of honeyed late afternoon light streaming in from the window, I see the dust particles swirling in the heavy air shift wildly, disturbed by Dean's entry and booming voice. He shifts a stack of thick magazines under his arm.
Gabe mumbles an unclear greeting, his head tucked deep inside an inventory box like an ostrich in the sand. "Hiya," I say, my voice cool, distaste acting as a balm to the stinging embarassment in my cheeks. I walk deliberately past, avoiding Dean's cheerful gaze, and lay my sticky book beneath the fan and flicking the switch. The gentle hum of the electricity whirs into gear as the blades start turning. The breeze ruffles the pleats in my tartan skirt.
"Hey!" Emma beams sweetly to her boyfriend. "Watcha need?" She pulls the shoulder of her sweater up as she talks; as soon as she moves, it slips back down again.
Gabe's eyes are on Dean as the other man looks greedily at the paleness of Emma's skin; I watch Gabe, and see his hands clench on the scissors. He can't stand to see her with Dean; actually he can't stand to see her with anyone.
"Dean?" He hasn't answered her question, just stands there, eyes vacant, transfixed by her shoulder, and Emma arches her eyebrows quizically. "Do you need something?"
I duck behind the counter and sidle up to Gabe, taking the scissors from his clenched fist. A tense, upset look darkens his features; he knows Dean's undressing her with his eyes, and is ready to shove him through the leaded windows and onto the pavement outside. Agh, I think, patting my friend's arm sympathetically. How can she not know. Poor Gabe.
Dean blinks, brought from his reverie by Emma's tone. "N-no." He stumbles over the word, and I let out a quiet snort of laughter, smirking at Gabe, who looks back, frown quirking into a devilish grin. "I...uh..." He thrusts the stack of magazines into Emma's arms. "You left these at my flat, I thought you might need them for work or..." he trails off, "something." Nothing else to say, he runs a hand over his shortly cropped mahogany hair, and gives her a leering smile.
I pull a pen from a cup on the counter and sneak it into my mouth, biting down on the end as Emma regards the glossy covers of her bridal magazines. "Um...thanks?" Her voice runs up: she's confused by Dean's awkward, flailing presentation of the dress lookbooks. "I do need these. For a client. Thanks."
Dean looks hastily at the door, presumedly sensing the tension in the room. "I, uh, I actually have to be going, I've got work," he glances at his watch, "in fifteen minutes. I'll see you later, okay?" He owns a restaurant a few streets over that Emma sometimes does consults at: that’s how they met. He often says one of the benefits of being owner is that he only has to show up for the dinner rush. The rest of us think he’s a colossal git, but Emma adores everyone she dates for the metaphorical fifteen minutes that she’s dating them, so we all tolerate him. She hasn’t stuck with any one guy since that jerk Clayton destroyed her, and so even Gabe is pleased about the fact that she’s dating happily.
Emma nods, cradling the magazines. "Kay." Dean kisses her cheek perfunctorily, exiting the shop with a tinkle of the bell.
Gabe looks at Emma, Emma looks at Gabe. "Shut. Up," she says, hoisting herself onto the counter and grabbing at her knitting. He looks at me archly and I snigger, settling myself into the desk chair, swivelling it back and forth with my stockinged foot.
"What do you see in him anyway?" Gabe enquires.
Emma continues to stare into her void of yarn, studiously making a point of not answering. "He was a Scout as a boy," I say, tapping my pen against my bottom lip, grinning, my voice infused with teasing and mockery. "He can tie really great knots."
Emma turns to glare at me, but her eyes catch Gabe's instead, and he arches his brows. "Really? You like being tied up?"
"With fisherman's rope," I offer helpfully, smirking. They take the piss regularly, but I'm not entirely devoid of ammunition, and teasing Emma is my wonderfully malicious hobby; usually the most fun I have all day. It's my special mission, like Arthur and the Questing Beast.
Her dark, flushed scowl turns on me. "Where is it exactly you keep your teacher's paddle, Sophie?"
I colour carmine, but smile back unflinchingly. "In my wardrobe," I divulge, calling to mind the high polish of the cherrywood cudgel, slightly smaller than a cricket bat, but shaped similarly. It was tucked beneath a stack of folded quilts, next to the riding crop left by a former boyfriend who had worked at a stable in High Blantyre.
Gabe's gaze softens as his thoughts deepen. The late afternoon sun streams in through the glass at the storefront, warming the planes of his cheeks and illuminating the stray gold in his dark stubble, his eyes melting to molten silver in the amber glow. "Hmmm. I always knew you had a thing for feet, Em, but I never knew you liked to be tied up….interesting…”
She bites her top lip in frustration and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, as if praying to whatever gods are listening for patience. “Alright, guys, look. My weird, or not so weird, kinks are really none of your concern. Because I only slept with Sophie that one time that neither of us can remember, and as far as I know, I’ve never slept with you, Gabe. Okay? Okay.”
He raises an eyebrow as I choke on an inhale. She’s really not supposed to tell people about that. We’re still not sure how it happened. At the time we were freaked, and we avoided each other for weeks, and Emma swore off alcohol, and we both decided not to be lesbians. Then we resolved never to talk about it again. So she obviously failed at that. And as I struggled to erase the memory from my brain again, Gabe walked over and patted her on the shoulder mockingly. “We’ll just discount that one time we made out on a dare, okay? I’m sure you’re right. Just because my tongue has intimate knowledge of your mouth doesn’t entitle me to know your sexual habits.”
Within seconds, the not-quite-musical bell on our door had rung merrily as Isobel walked in, and Gabe had retreated back behind the counter, rubbing his arm. I frown quizzically at Emma. "She punched me," Gabe offers, his voice shot through with annoyance and pain. "AND she stepped on my foot. Shrew."
Isobel lingers in the doorway. The shadows have started to fall outside, wrapping around her frame, and only the left side of her body is lit. “I had the most awkward sex of all time last night.”
I burst into laughter, while at the same time trying to arrange my face into an appropriately sympathetic expression, stepping towards her.
I burst into laughter, while at the same time trying to arrange my face into an appropriately sympathetic expression, stepping towards her. "Oh, honey!" I say, pouting exaggeratedly on my grin, tucking a damp curl behind her small ear. "Was Perfect Adam that bad in bed?"
She lets out a groan of frustration. "I don't even know what it was. It was just awkward. There's no other way to describe it. Painfully awkward. It was like those really awful scenes in movies. It was movie sex. And not even good movie sex, not like The Tudors. Horrible movie sex. Not quite as bad as American Pie, but close. So so close." She leans back against a rickety bookcase, volumes stacked haphazardly on the shelves, and causes the whole apparatus to shift dangerously on its wobbly feet, then slumps down to the heavy Turkish rug over the old floorboards. Her elbows perch on her knees, heels of her hands pressed into her eyes, like a distraught reinterpretation of Rodin's Thinker.
I walk to pour her a mug of tea from the electric kettle behind the counter. A spoonful of sugar, a splash of milk, and voila, instant comfort. Pushing it into her hands, I join her on the floor. "Je suis desole, ma petite." I croon sympathetically, leaning my head against her shoulder.
Gabe leans over the counter, always eager to talk about someone else’s miserable sex life. "Wasn't he the guy you were so crazy about? You thought he was The One?" His inflection adds special emphasis to the last two words; finger quotes show his scepticism."There isn't just one person for everyone, Isobel, you shouldn't focus so much on that."
Emma looks up from her knitting. "He's right. Also, I know he felt perfect in every other respect, but sexual satisfaction is a huge part of a relationship. Don't settle for someone shitty in bed just because he...I dunno, knows how to wash dishes." She shrugs, peers at the tangle of yarn in her hands, and then meets Isobel's eyes, smiling. "If it makes you feel better, this afghan is for you. I'm gonna add purple stripes in."
Isobel swallows a mouthful of tea. "Thanks. Ugh. I dunno, he just felt so...right. And I thought that after so much time together, since we connect so well, the sex would be great.”
“Apparently not?” I query, hoping she’ll take the opportunity to keep venting.
“No. I blushed the whole time, and he was so into it, and then I had to fake it, and I almost forgot to..." Gabe sniggers, and she hurls a pamphlet at him. "Just because you’d be perfectly happy to even get a fake orgasm out of a girl, doesn’t make it okay."
I shift uncomfortably beside her, aware that my limbs are falling painfully asleep beneath me. Moving carefully so I won't tumble the bookcase behind us, I turn and lie back to stare up at the strings of Christmas lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Last year, in a fit of Yuletide fervour, Emma and Isobel and I had climbed atop the bookcases and stapled the multicoloured strands to the low wooden ceiling. Gabe had come in from running some errands to see the shop alive with rainbow hues. The first thing he wanted to know was which of us had thrown up a box of fluorescent crayons all over his timbered roof, and then we’d shared the sweet buns he'd picked up on his way back from Tesco.
That night we had all gathered in the small flat I share with Isobel and Emma, the three of us, and Gabe, and Kat, and decorated our short Christmas tree and lit Emma’s menorah. Later, though, we never bothered to take down the lights in the shop, so there they stayed, a testament to our collective childhood fascination with Lite-Brite.
Staring up from my position on the threadbare Turkish rug, purchased right after Emma followed us to Glasgow, I pull at the thick, stretchy material of my tights, yanking them back into place from where they've ridden up. I raise myself up onto my elbows, sighing delightedly at the comforting, musty smell of paper coming from the thousands of books piled onto the shelves, letting my eyes drift lazily over the room. The last remnants of honeyed sunlight filter through the front windows. It illuminates floating dust particles wafting aimlessly in the quiet breeze, made by the combined efforts of our breathing, in and out, simultaneously easy from so many hours of thoughtless togetherness.
On days like this, with all of us sitting silently together, enveloped by the encroaching shadows that lengthen as the sun sets in the late afternoon, I'm struck by the lasting familiarity of it all. We've been friends for so long, yet the basics haven’t changed. We've gone off to college, we've drank, and smoked, and woken up awkwardly in the wrong bed after long nights of sex none of us can remember. We've lost touch, and moved across the world, fought and yelled and thrown things, and yet we all ended up back together, sitting in a bookshop owned by Gabe of all people, in Glasgow, with the light fading rapidly and the damp cold of Scotland seeping up through the creaking floors. Looking around at them, all engrossed in their tasks, a rush of affection for them warms my chest; I smile at their distractedness. Beside me, Isobel slurps forlornly on her tea. Her dark eyes are filled with moisture, and she tugs on a dark curl, limp from the rain drying in her hair. Emma perches atop the counter, one bare foot tucked beneath her, the other swinging idly back and forth. Her heel hits against the thin grain of the wood; she stares, intently focused, into her tangle of yarn, knitting needles clacking together in a strange tattoo as she blows her fringe out of her eyes. Behind her, Gabe looks up from his box of inventory and stretches his arms above him, yawning. The hem of the old Sex Pistols t-shirt he's had since I met him our junior year of high school, the one Emma's mended too many times to count, hitches up his belly, exposing a thin white strip of skin. Emma eyes it, distractedly and unconsciously, the way she has since I met them. He surveys the shop, running his palm over the few days worth of stubble on his cheeks. I tip my head back as the rest of the light fades from the windows, smiling at the rainbow coloured glare above me, bright as neon before Emma pulls the chain of the lamp beside her. The grandfather clock strikes, tolling high and off-pitch. Once. Twice. Five times, the tinkle of the doorbell cutting in on the last strike.
A nervous looking man ambles in, his black hair sparkling with rain under the low lighting. "Hi. Are you open?" His question is tentative, and I stand up, stretching, and smile at him gently.
"Yeah, sorry, it’s just dark in here." I stumble past him to the door, next to which is the switch for the overhead lighting, flicking it on and flooding the place with artificial glow. "I'm Sophie. Looking for something specific, are you?"
"Stephen," he says after a moment's hesitation. "Um, yeah, I am actually.” He scratches nervously at the back of his neck, his navy peacoat stretching open to reveal a sensible sort of sweater made of some sort of soft fabric. I fight the urge to pet his sweater, and wait for him to tell me what book he's looking for, admiring the messy dark nest of his hair that’s sticking up at odd angles from where he ran his fingers through it while it was wet with rain. His skin shines pale and soft under the fluorescent lighting, his cheekbones high, his eyes a bright, brilliant blue. "I'm doing an American history degree up at the university, and I have to do a paper on the American Indian situation in the seventeenth century. I've looked all over, and I can't find what I need." His ears colour as he talks, scarlet darkening the outer rim of the shell of his earlobe. "Do you have anything on the Pequot Wars?"
Before I can answer, Emma's head shoots up. "YES!" she cries enthusiastically. She has a weird affection for the Pequot Massacre. She, Gabe, and I studied it together in school, but Emma really absorbed it. "Come with me, I can show you where it is." She tosses down her knitting and jumps off the counter, motioning for Stephen to follow her through the maze of bookshelves. He looks slightly frightened by her enthusiasm, but gives me a small smile and a wave before ducking behind Emma to the outer darkness of the back of the shop. I heave a sigh at his retreating figure, and tug at the hem of my skirt.
"Jesus!" Isobel shouts out, as they retreat. "Did that clock strike five a few minutes ago? You've got that class on Tudor history, Sophie, and I've got a surgery to observe. That's what I came in for earlier, to let you know so we’d both remember."
"Oh, shit! Um..." I search around the floor for my shoes, shoving my feet into the flats hastily, yanking my coat from the rack and throwing it over my shoulders, pushing my arms into the sleeves. "Gabe? Isn’t Emma's consult at six-ish, too?"
"Oh, yeah!" He leans over the counter, reading the datebook she leaves in the shop so we can all keep track of each others’ activities. "Em!” he shouts into the depths of the store. “You've got that consult! Hurry up!"
Emma's voice comes across the shop. "Oh, damn! Did you get that book, Stephen?" A few seconds later she's bounding out of the shelves, Stephen trailing behind cautiously, alarmed by the sudden flurry of activity. "Are you guys ready?" she asks Isobel and I, putting on her jacket and grabbing up her bag, slipping her feet into a pair of Gabe's old dress shoes, unable to find her own. They're too big for her, falling apart and scuffed up, but that hardly seems to matter as she's running late.
"I can ring that up for you," Gabe calls to Stephen over the din. Isobel holds open the door, the bell sounds, and Emma gives Gabe a swift hug over the counter before rushing out into the street. I squeeze Gabe and smile timidly at Stephen, whispering a soft farewell before Isobel calls an impatient "Sophie..." in my direction and I tumble over the floorboards and the threshhold, the door swinging shut behind me with a jangle. The sky outside has darkened to the slate blue of twilight, faint streaks of orange visible on the horizon. The street is slick and wet, and the air is heavy with a mist of precipitation, cold and clean and refreshed by the rain. I breathe deeply and blink moisture out of my lashes, walking along the slippery pavements precariously, gripping Emma for support as we move forward in the dim haze of light spilling out from storefronts and the head lamps of the cars, splattering thin droplets of water on our legs.
I squint into the rain at the street signs, separating from Emma as I recognize Church Street. We all pause at the corner for a moment, huddled together against the chill, talking over the slick wet sound of tires on asphalt. “So, are you cooking tonight, then?” I ask her. “Because if you are, you’d better call Gabe and Kat, but if you’re not, Isobel and I will pick something up on our way back to the flat.”
“Yeah, I’ve really been in the mood for Chinese lately,” Isobel interjects, shivering against me. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and wince as water seeps into my shoe, shooting pins of icy pain up the arch of my foot.
“Alright, then I guess I won’t cook. Plus, I might be running late. Fiona is an unbelievably difficult bride; she’s changed her colors at least four times, and she still has no idea what to clothe her bridesmaids in." Digging in her bag, her hand pulls out something floppy. As she tugs it onto her head and over her ears, I recognise it as one of the knit hats she'd been making all summer, to prepare herself for the onslaught of the Glaswegian winter. I pull a sharp intake of breath in envy, eyeing the warm, soft fabric as my ears freeze so cold it burns. "So just get me something tofu, please, and I’ll see you back home.”
I lift my hand to wave as she continues down the sidewalk, watching as the streetlamps catch the little droplets of rainwater, making them shimmer as they splash up from her too-large shoes while she crosses the puddle-riddled street; the lazy light transforms the beads of moisture into a bright sparkle of stars, fragmenting the pavement around her feet. Isobel and I turn up Church Street, pressing on through the haze of breath that hangs in a fog before us towards the University, the rain soaking our clothes, and dripping through our hair.
As we walk, I glance around at the familiar shops and buildings. The comforting monotony continues until we reach Byres Street, only one street away from the building I have class in. I look up from the cobblestone sidewalk as we take the next corner, skidding slightly until Isobel puts out a hand to stop me, catching my wrist before I tumble. I right myself just shy of a wooden shop door. Beneath a thin layer of dust, the paint is peeling; a handcrafted sign hangs lopsidedly on a rusted nail long ago pounded in to the wood, swaying idly in the thin breeze of frozen air. I squint to make out the notice; the large picture window of this shop is dark and grimy. Through the gloom, words shine as my eyes accustom themselves to the murky light: LIFE PROBLEMS SLOVED HERE, lettered in a spidery blue script. An intriguing declaration; I bite my lip as my hand hovers inches from the door, ready to knock, worrying over the darkness behind the glass.
Isobel tugs sharply on my sleeve to pull me along, harshly squashing my curiosity; we are running late, after all. The shop shall have to wait for another day.
.
Dear Emma, Sophie, and Gabe,
Hey from Zambia! The first thing I did when I got here was visit Victoria Falls, the picture on the front of this card, which is on the border of Zimbabwe. But then, it was back to work converting the heathens. JK. Actually, I feel terrible for the people here. I mean, it’s a beautiful country. But one in five people here have HIV, and they make less than 2 dollars a week. We’re doing all we can, building wells and vaccinating, but I know when we leave, these people will still be suffering. I’ll be in Johannesburg, South Africa, at a summit next week, and I’ll try to email you from the hotel there. Hope you’re all well! Miss you!
Eva