Barbara Stephens sat behind the front desk at the Britechester Public Library. Not to be confused with the giant University Library on campus. No, this one was much smaller and filled with young families and teens rather than the hundreds of stressed-out college students she was usually surrounded by.
It was her job, yes, and a boring, monotonous one at that. But in some ways, it was also an escape.
While some people may prefer a day at the spa, or lying on the beach near the ocean, or hiking in the mountains, there were only two places where Barbara felt truly at peace.
The first was in her tiny garden surrounded by fragrant flowers and the gentle hum of bees.
And the second was here at the library. There was a particular quality to the quietness of a library, broken only by whispers, muffled footsteps, and the pleasant crinkle of plastic that protected the hardcover books. It was soothing. Though, perhaps a little too soothing.
Barbara’s head slumped down for the third time in as many minutes. She jerked it back up with a sigh and tried to refocus on her textbook. History had never been her favorite subject, but this was the first time her solid ‘A’ average had been threatened. She had never got a ‘B’ in her life, and she wasn’t going to start now. It was a slippery slope.
With a shake of her head, she looked up at the clock to check the time.
4:17
She smiled to herself.
Gabriel would be there soon. The realization filled her with renewed energy, and she returned to her textbook, refusing to look toward the entrance.
If she was caught watching the doors when he walked in, he may think she was waiting for him, and that would be far too embarrassing.
Because she wasn’t waiting for him.
Not really.
Not like that.
She just appreciated the consistency of his routine. She’d grown to anticipate the moment he walked through the door. The way he would stop at the same shelf to pull the same books that he returned the evening before and sit at the desk by the far window to continue working on… whatever it was he was working on. She’d never had the courage to ask. Or to speak to him at all, for that matter. He didn’t seem the type that wanted to be bothered.
The only reason Barbara knew Gabriel’s name, and the fact that he went to her school, was because she happened to mention him to Imogen, her friend and former roommate, who somehow found his student profile within minutes of Barbara describing him.
One minute Barbara was going on about his dark hair and eyes, and the way he tended to cover his mouth with his hand—gripping it tight with his brow furrowed, or scraping his thumbnail along his lower lip as he stared off with unfocused eyes—and the next minute, those eyes were staring back at her from Imogen’s screen.
“That him?” she had asked.
“Yes. How did you do that?”
“It’s a gift,” Imogen shrugged like it was nothing, “His name is Gabriel Russo. He’s a grad student, majoring in Microbiology.”
When Barbara caught herself daydreaming yet again, she stretched and chanced another glance at the clock.
4:21
Apparently, this day was never going to end. Giving up, she pushed her textbook aside and decided to start scanning the books from the return bin instead. Might as well work while, you know, at work.
The doors opened a minute later, briefly letting in a draft of cool air and the smell of wet concrete. It was raining again. Not a heavy rain, just a quiet drizzle. Barbara smiled to herself, waiting for Gabriel to walk by before she would allow herself to glance up and watch him navigate his now familiar path through the shelves. But he didn’t walk by. Instead, soft footsteps walked closer and stopped behind her.
She was about to turn around and ask if the person needed help when they knocked on the counter.
Three knocks, to be precise, in quick succession.
Followed by two slow knocks. Left then right.
Michael.
Mikey, to her.
Her twin brother.
And the last person she wanted to deal with right now.
She turned to him, her face going from customer-service-smile to you’re-dead-to-me-glower so fast that she wasn’t sure if she was successful. For good measure, she added a succinct, “Fuck off,” and turned her chair back around.
“B,” he said, sounding more exasperated than he had any right to.
“I’m sorry,” he tried again when she didn’t respond.
Barbara went back to scanning the books, one by one, “I’m working.”
“If you’d answer my calls, I wouldn’t have to bug you at work.”
Now that pissed her off.
She whirled around on him, no doubt she was giving him the full force of her glower this time, “We live together, asshole. You could come home some time.”
He took a deep breath as if he needed to gather strength before saying, “Can we just talk, please?”
“I’m working,” she said again through gritted teeth.
“Can we meet for lunch tomorrow?”
“Depends. Is Katie going to be there?” She infused all the bitterness she felt into the name. It was rare these days for her brother to be without his girlfriend. Barbara wouldn’t be surprised if she was waiting for him outside, and the thought made her tense.
He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, exasperated all over again, “No, Catherine will not be there. Just you and me.”
Barbara was going to dig in deeper, but was distracted when the doors opened and Gabriel walked in. She stared for a beat longer than she intended and he glanced at her.
Not just glanced.
He smiled.
Okay, more like the smallest quirk of one corner of his mouth, but it felt like the sun bursting through her cloud-covered day and made her heart trip over itself.
She looked back at Mikey, but he was looking curiously at Gabriel as he walked away, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than for Mikey to leave.
“Fine,” she said, pulling his attention back to her. “Lunch. Tomorrow.”
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“He’s no one.”
“Liar.”
“He’s none of your business.”
“That’s how it’s going to be now?”
“Yep.”
He sighed yet again in that way of his. As if talking to her had depleted all his energy stores and then some. “Noon. Our usual spot.”
“Can’t wait,” Barbara said without an ounce of sincerity.
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A/N: We've gone back in time about 40 years, give or take. And while I have an incredible amount of respect and admiration to those who make their stories decade-accurate in regards to aesthetic, fashion, music, technology, etc... I am not that person. And this year has been hard, so I'm not going to put added pressure on myself when it comes to something that is supposed to be fun, y'know.
(I know most of you probably wouldn't get hung up on that, but I got in my head about it lol)
“Suki, a Whippet-Labrador cross, with her owner Elvira Meucci, 28, who rescued her from Battersea Dogs Home, won the title of Supreme Champ of the Woofers at Work.”
My memory slot can only hold so much and I usually forget things right after I learn them, one reason why school is the absolute worst.
So, naturally, I forget everything Michael says. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the videos. I love them, even when I don’t understand some of the things he says..
But due to this memory issue, I can watch the same video twenty times and not get bored, because I forget what he says each time.
So every time I watch the video, it feels like a new experience, and I thoroughly enjoy it every time
Many spoons in the sink, and that means it was a dull night, too much coffee and ice cream, not enough foreplay. If there are many forks, it was probably a good night. But most importantly if there were many knives used, it was a great night, even if misunderstandings arose, people were stabbed, blood flowed. Spoons suggest measuring. After most suicides, detectives discover many spoons in the sink. There may be one knife that killed a person, but it is merely a symbol of too many spoons and forks: a wish for knives at table. Eliot was wise about spoons measuring life; even Edgar Lee Masters saw their monotony well enough. All those sentimental songs about “spooning”. Even what spoon rhymes with is worth- less: moon, June, croon. Spoon never rhymes with wife the way knife does. Forks are frequently connected with a type of sex, but what this type is—no one knows. And even the fork has a kind of character which can’t be denied, and yet it is not the mark of an outstanding evening. The happy household is spoonless, but don’t be fooled by chopsticks. Houses need knives. Families depend on knives to survive. A man may eat peas off a knife; he may drink blood from it. A sink filled with knives is a house that has had an eventful dinner.
Many spoons in the sink, and that means it was a dull night, too much coffee and ice cream, not enough foreplay. If there are many forks, it was probably a good night. But most importantly if there were many knives used, it was a great night, even if misunderstandings arose, people were stabbed, blood flowed. Spoons suggest measuring. After most suicides, detectives discover many spoons in the sink. There may be one knife that killed a person, but it is merely a symbol of too many spoons and forks: a wish for knives at table. Eliot was wise about spoons measuring life; even Edgar Lee Masters saw their monotony well enough. All those sentimental songs about “spooning”. Even what spoon rhymes with is worth- less: moon, June, croon. Spoon never rhymes with wife the way knife does. Forks are frequently connected with a type of sex, but what this type is—no one knows. And even the fork has a kind of character which can’t be denied, and yet it is not the mark of an outstanding evening. The happy household is spoonless, but don’t be fooled by chopsticks. Houses need knives. Families depend on knives to survive. A man may eat peas off a knife; he may drink blood from it. A sink filled with knives is a house that has had an eventful dinner.
