Just Breathe (2 page)

Back a few aisles, I throw River God by Wilbur Smith on top of the stack in his hands for good measure. I glare at the pile critically, then nod, satisfied that he’ll like something.

“Thank you for the recommendations.”

“You’re welcome.” Despite wanting to spend more time with him, I set a brisk pace back to the counter. Mary-Margaret’s been alone for a while, and I’ve been having a great time selecting his books, which isn’t fair on her. She looks a little harried as I step behind the desk and up to the computer. Hazel Eyes digs in his wallet for his card. Before he finds it, the phone rings.

Mary-Margaret hates the phone with a fiery passion and gives me The Look. Glancing from Hazel Eyes, then back to her, I shrug and answer it. He mouths thanks and I nod at him. Mary-Margaret helps with his books and of course that’s when everyone and their neighbour swarm us. A small crowd gathers at the counter. As soon as I’m done with the call I’m elbow deep in other people’s check outs, ear deep in their reference questions, and unable to talk about the books I recommended for Him. By the time the rush is over, he’s gone.

He wasn’t the last patron Mary-Margaret helped either, so his information is gone from the computer screen when I check it. I didn’t even get his name. Not that I care. It’s for the best I suppose. He’s probably in a relationship anyways, or gay. Or in a gay relationship.

I’m way happier by myself. Single. A lone wolf. A Lone. Yup. I drum my fingernails on the desktop. I could use a drink. Shift’s over in an hour and seven minutes, not that I’m counting down or anything.

Chapter Two

I love reading after a few glasses of wine. A nice buzz makes everything condense and thicken to a syrupy pace where my focus can make a sentence last forever. I find sub-sub-plots, characters become transparent while their actions become infinitely more complex. The publisher’s choice of font can be mulled over, contemplating hidden meanings even in something that prosaic. A paragraph is a galaxy and a page is a universe.

Snuggled down under my blanket I stretch my legs out on the bed. With a wiggle and a happy sigh, I open the Coupland I haven’t yet read. I love this moment, before I read a book. It’s something new and fresh, and it might become my favourite book of all time! It’s pure anticipation that only lasts a few minutes. Very few books end up trumping a number one all time go-to book. Some may rank top ten, or edge out number five, but for the most part they end up just being okay.

But for
this
moment, after the dedication, before the first paragraph—there’s magic. I have quite a few of these moments as a librarian, and a book slut—I’ll read anything. Twice. Reading is sort of an unspoken responsibility at work, the more we read the more knowledgeable we are about our materials and are better able to help the patrons. Works for me, I’d read the same amount anyway.

My eyes and mind devour the first three pages of magical prose. Something inside me swells and I know that this book is going to rank high on my all time list. A little zing that increases the wine’s buzz fills me, and I flip the page and read the words so greedily that I half expect them to be sucked from the paper into my eyes and lodge deep inside my brain. This book is a
revelation.

And then I see it.

Third paragraph down, the second sentence has been
underlined
. And the page across from it has three different passages underlined as well! My lungs squeak out an offended gasp, and I flip furiously through half the book. The underlining doesn’t end!

It. Doesn’t. End.

This offends me not just because I’m a librarian and a fierce book lover. No. This is also a visceral cling to originality.

I’m well aware of the fact that I’m not the only one who’s read this book, nor will I be the last. But I, like most people, like to think of myself as unique, discerning. But now, someone has underlined passages in a book I was going to love and it just
ruins
it! Even if I had read those same lines and they had resonated with me, I can’t like them
now
. I can’t like them because someone else liked them enough to underline them! And I cannot like the same things as someone who writes in library books! It’s not a textbook, or a personal reference book, it’s public fucking property and someone has defaced it.

And yeah, it’s underlined faintly in pencil, not pen, but how dare they? Now, even when there aren’t any underlined bits, I see them there; the ghosts of douchebaggery past. Damn it, now it’s ruined. I needed this book. I needed an amazing book for a distraction and it’s been snatched away from me. I set the book down—even this mad I won’t throw it, because unlike
some
people, I respect public property.

I flounce out of my room and head for the bottle of wine in the fridge. Refilling my glass, I stomp to the living room and flop onto the couch. There’s half a joint left sitting on the coffee table. My mouth waters as I imagine lighting up and breathing deeply until all the smoke is gone. It would tear at my throat, and I’d choke a little on the smoke, but savagely suck it deeper into my lungs. But halfway through my second imaginary toke, the reason for needing a distraction so badly invades my mind. Jason.

I’d only been a social smoker until his actions turned me into a full blown pothead as I turned to smoking weed to cope when we broke up. A week ago I switched to wine to give my lungs a break. Also, because I no longer had control over the amount I was smoking—and worst of all, I didn’t care. Luckily self-preservation showed up in the nick of time.

I can’t ever do that again; lose myself at the bottom of a bong for a few weeks. If I do that again, I might not emerge. I have no trouble limiting myself to two or three glasses of wine. So instead of lighting up the joint like I want to, I gulp back another mouthful of wine.

There. Now my eyes tear up from the alcohol burn—not emotion. I exhale. Fucking Jason. I haven’t seen him in over two months. Technically he’s still my boyfriend, but only because he hasn’t broken up with me, and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. He’d gone on a business trip that was only supposed to last a few days. He called me when he got there and told me that he’d be home on Sunday. Then he called me on Thursday saying he was going to be a few more days, and he’d be home on Saturday.

I haven’t heard from him since.

It’s clearly over between us, I’m not a moron. I just wish I knew
why
. What happened. Why, despite having a seemingly perfect relationship, he didn’t think I deserved an explanation, or even a goodbye. It’s not like I’ve been waiting for him to come back and explain what happened. Last week I decided that I didn’t care anymore, even if he came back tomorrow. Two months and seventeen days is the absolute limit to wait on an errant boyfriend, and I was—
am
over him.

And I no longer worry about whether or not something has happened to him. Not after a casual call to his roommate last week inviting him to my housewarming party, which he didn’t show up for, revealed that Jason had in fact moved to that other city. I acted like I knew he’d moved, but it was news to me. His old roommate, Skeeter, had chatted, and I’d laughed along, and shrivelled up and died a little more inside.

That call set me free from the anxiety that Jason had shown up to my old place and missed me, and not known where I live now. And had forgotten my number, and all our mutual friends’ numbers, so hadn’t had any of my new contact information. That call had shown me what a selfish asshole he is. It was liberating. Li-ber-a-ting. So like any twenty-one-year-old woman whose boyfriend has run away from a seven month relationship with no hint or preview, I am doing what is best for me: Moving On. Drinking myself silly until the sharp edges of my emotions grind down enough to live deep in my heart without stabbing me with every breath I take.

Most women get a makeover after a breakup, but I’m pretty low maintenance and set in my ways. Besides, my dark brown hair has just grown out from a disastrous haircut into shoulder length shaggy layers that actually look good. I almost dyed it blond to spite Jason who had “loved the contrast between my light grey-green eyes and dark hair,” but didn’t. That felt a little too much like letting him win in some way.

Instead of a makeover I really threw myself into smoking pot. The weed gave me little parcels of time where I forgot about everything. Little presents of an hour or two, where I could gap out and giggle and forget. He was still gone, but for those brief snatches of time, so was the pain. But the weed started to affect my short term memory, and I started waking up with a cough every morning. Work noticed something was up, but I couldn’t blame my sudden brain farts on being tired forever.

Not wanting to be boyfriendless and jobless, I switched to liquor. It’s been better on my lungs and memory.

Some strange side effects though as my brain cells fire up again.

I’d decorated the living room ten days ago while stoned. Neither of my roommates, who are also my best friends, know the details about Jason’s leaving. They know we broke up, I told them last week just before the party, but they thought he was out of town for work. Extended business trip, putting out fires for the other city’s office.

They think the break up was mutual and I just don’t want to talk about it. I’d hate to see the look in their eyes as they wonder what I did wrong to drive him away. No one could believe that we hadn’t fought. Ever. If we were so perfect why did he leave? They probably wouldn’t judge me as the guilty party, but I just can’t think about it anymore. They’d ask the questions I ask myself and have none of the answers to.

So. The living room. To remind myself of how I change when I give into smoky temptation, I have left it exactly as I made it. Stoned Me had needed something bright and cheerful as a distraction to how dull and dark I’d become inside. The living room was my victim, my scapegoat. The carpet was a deep primary green already. I painted the four walls, each in a different primary colour; red, yellow, blue, and orange. The ceiling, I slicked with a fresh coat of white paint to enhance the effect.

We’ve been living in a Rubik’s Cube ever since.

Chapter Three

Saturday afternoon I reach under the counter and pull out the defiled Coupland book. Time for a little investigating. One little scan, a mouse click, and I pull up the file of the last patron to have this book out, before myself obviously. Okay, yes, what I’m doing is technically not allowed. Looking up someone’s personal information is definitely a no-no, but I am not being nosy for personal reasons. No, I am looking the information up to see who defaced the book and if we want to charge them for the damages.

The answer will be no, as it’s just pencil and pencil can be erased, but in the meantime I’ll get to satisfy my annoyance at the mystery identity of the douchebag, and prove to myself that I am nothing like them. I scan the book and see the last user’s name. Him. Mister Jareth Williams. Wait, oh my god, Jareth? His name is
Jareth?
As in the goblin king from Labyrinth? Great, now I’m picturing David Bowie’s character in those tight pants and white blouse underlining the library book with one hand while contact juggling crystal balls in the other.

I had a giant crush on David Bowie because of Labyrinth. He was hot, especially in the dance scene. The one at the masquerade ball in the hallucination, not the one where he threw the baby around.

But this patron is not the goblin king. What else is there about this inferior Jareth? Twenty-six years old, about four years older than me. He doesn’t have either senility or youthful capriciousness on his side. Diabolical. I shake my head. 42 Karac Drive. That’s in Cabri—the trendy, upscale part of town. Must be nice. How about using some of that wealth to buy your own goddamned books to write in? Asshole.

“Hey, Ellie, what are you looking at?” Mary-Margaret’s voice comes from over my shoulder.
Gah!

I close the window. “Oh, I got this book out and someone has written in it! So I’m seeing who had it last.” It’s the truth. Technically.

“Oh. Well good, we’ll probably have to charge them. Some people...” she trails off looking stern.

“Yes. Well, it is only in pencil.”

“Oh. Then just erase it, no big deal.” She waves her hand dismissively.

“Okay.” I keep my tone agreeable enough and grab an eraser, but I’m annoyed. Not only did Jareth ruin my reading experience, now I’m the one that has to flip through the entire book erasing his handiwork! Yeah, rub that salt into the wound, I love it! Harder! Sigh. My hand nearly tears the paper, I’m pushing so hard. I lighten up and make quick work of the rest of the book. There. It’s gone, but I still can’t read the book now. The lines are gone but my outrage hasn’t faded. Maybe in a month or two.

“Something’s wrong with the system.” Mary-Margaret vigorously clicks the mouse and sighs. “Ugh. Aurora is down.”

I groan. Aurora is the computer program that we use to check books in and out, and it’s the database for all patron records. It doesn’t go down often, it hasn’t happened during one of my shifts, but I’ve heard stories. Instead of just scanning the patron card and then the book, we’ll have to open a word document, type the patron’s name, type the barcode from the book—which is usually sixteen digits long, and then copy paste all of that info when the system is back online. Superstitious guilt twitches through me, as if my abusing the system has crashed it. It hasn’t, it’s headquarters’ server that has the malfunction.

Still, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. This means extra work for us. At least it didn’t happen on a Tuesday, our busiest day. Saturday isn’t a bad day for Aurora to go down, except for the teenagers going off on tirades because the computers are down as well—no internet. Honestly, were we all like that as teens, filled to the scowling eyes with undeserved entitlement? Twenty-two in a couple months and I feel so much older than they are. I commiserate with them, and because I look younger than my age they don’t relegate me to the “can’t understand teen angst” category, but inside I’m thrilled that they might pick up a book until the internet comes back online.