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Lyric
My fingers trace the barely-cracked spines, the edges not wrinkled in the slightest. They’re in perfect condition, almost as good as new. They’ve been cast aside, unloved and untouched; their words hated so much the reader could barely stand another sentence.
But they’ve found a home here—a loving, welcoming home. One where, no matter the things written between the covers, they’ll be read. They’ll be loved. They’ll live safely here until someone stumbles across them and takes them to their forever home.
My throat constricts at the thought of the hundreds of DNF’d books abandoned over the years—of all the books now with their loving owners, their spines broken and pages bent. I swallow back the tears threatening to fall from my eyes, my fingers still stroking the spines of these poor, lonely stories.
“I’m heading home!” Story calls, pulling me from my depressing thoughts, and I whirl around, a smile spreading as I watch my best friend, my soul sister, my co-owner, make her way to me, her yellow polka-dot 50’s style dress swaying around her calves.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, my throat still tight, but it’s not entirely because of the books, and she knows that. Giving me a sympathetic look, she bumps her hip into the corner of the table housing the Sci-Fi books, but seems to barely feel it. Probably because she’s the most accident-prone person I’ve ever met, and she’s used to the pain.
“What’s the deal, pickle?” She cackles at her own joke, and I shake my head, snorting a laugh. “How was the date last night? What was his name again? Kyle?”
“Worse. Lyle.” We both cringe at the name, a shudder working through my entire body. It’s not a good name, and he wasn’t a good date.
“What was the problem with him?” she asks, folding her arms under her breasts as she leans against the bookshelf I was just getting teary over. I hold my breath, waiting for the antique wood to give out and all the books come tumbling to the floor, but the thing holds. Thankfully. “Other than his name.”
I take a deep breath and turn my eyes skyward. “I don’t know,” I sigh. “He wasn’t a guy from a book. Life would be so much better if men were written by women.”
“A-fuckin’-men, sister.” She holds her hand up, praising the book lord and shutting her eyes as if she’s truly feeling the spirit go through her. “Who’s on the roster tonight?” Story gives the book tucked under my arm a pointed look, and I sigh wistfully as I hold it out between us.
“A classic Highlander romance,” I breathe, smiling at the hunky, massive ginger on the cover, his curly hair blowing in the Scottish wind. His shirt is ripped open, exposing his chest, and his kilt is plastered to his strong thighs, the excess fabric billowing behind him. A sword is clutched in one hand, while a dark-haired woman is clutched in the other arm.
She huffs out a laugh as she shakes her head. “I guess that’s better than the alien that laid eggs in his mate and watched her push them out.”
I barely hear her; I’m too busy staring at the man on the cover. There’s something about his painted green eyes that captivates me.
“Maybe I should move to Scotland,” I mutter. “If the men look like this,” I flip the book around so she can get a good look, “then I’d be in Heaven.”
She stares at it thoughtfully. “Maybe I can cast a spell to put you in the book,” she mutters to herself. “Then you could have your dream man.”
It’s stupid, I know that, but hope fills me. Why? I don’t really know or understand why. Obviously it’s impossible, yet my heart doesn’t know or care. “Could you?” I whisper. Her eyes lift to mine as a sly grin overtakes her face.
“I’ve been practicing my witchiness lately,” she admits, her voice a hushed whisper as she takes a step closer. I mimic her movements, looking around the empty shop to make sure we’re truly alone.
“And you think it’ll work?” She nods a few times, her eyes narrowing as she thinks.
“You just need some birch wood, a crystal, some paper, black pepper, and…” I hang on every word, making the mental list of things I’ll need to find for her to make this happen. “Oh, wait. No. That’s the wrong spell.”
“Do you have a book or something to reference?” I ask, and she waves me off.
“I stopped reading at chapter three, but I got the general gist of it.” She snaps her fingers, her entire face lighting up. “Okay, I’ve got it. All you need is to write your wish on a piece of paper, burn it, and say true love’s—” She lets out a loud sneeze, but I heard her loud and clear.
“Did you say jizz?” I yank my phone from my pocket. “True love’s jizz?”
“Sure,” she shrugs. “It’s really all semantics, you know? You can say anything. It’s the intent that matters.”
I tap the spell into my notes app before pulling her in for a tight hug. “Thanks, babe. I’ll let you know how it goes—” I pause and pull away, grinning. “Or I won’t. I might be sucked into this book.” I wave it around before giving a happy dance. “See you later!”
