4. to be an admirer

4

to be an admirer

Lucynda

October 10th

Ambivalence - The state of having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone.

That's the only way that I can explain how I feel right now.

The morning came as the sun shined new signs of life into the day, trying to weave itself through the dark clusters of clouds. And despite having one of the best nights of sleep of my life, ambivalence grips the tendrils of my heart, confusing the rational thoughts in my brain as I hold the folded up note in my hand.

I opened the bookstore just a few moments ago and the dead streak of having no customers in the morning is what gives me time to overthink the response that was left taped to my door, replacing mine from the night before, along with another singular black rose.

It’s a vintage cream piece of paper, thicker than most, and it's definitely been worn down over the years. It’s a beautiful yet odd piece of stationary displaying a formal response to the informal note I had left.

The black ink wisps effortlessly in scripted waves against the texture of the paper in my hands, my fingers absentmindedly tracing over the words as I read them over and over again.

I am no fool when it comes to the finer things in life. The color black represents parts of who we are inside and the rose itself is a delicate representation of only you. I know exactly who I am to leave my gifts for, Lucynda.

Sincerely, your shadowed admirer.

Every nerve ending in my body ignites with confusion and heat. My pulse strums in my ears and sinks down into my belly. I blink my eyes more than a few times, wondering if what I’m reading will become another imaginative memory ghosting into the distance, but the words still display immaculately against the aged paper and my head dizzies as I take in the note for what it is. They know my name. But who could this be?

Someone has to be playing a cruel joke on me.

I was sure the roses were meant for the previous tenant. I don’t know a single soul in this town, at least no one that would admire me from the shadows, so to speak.

This could mean that I wasn’t seeing things last night when I opened the window. Which means it was real when I saw it a few weekends ago leaving the grocery store as well. I recount all the times I've seen a shadowed figure over the past few weeks, now confident that whomever it might be is the one leaving the roses. I shiver at the thought because I've yet to run into anyone that might have deemed me memorable enough to want to gesture kindness, even if it is a little creepy. But not only that, this validates my suspicions of the feeling that I truly am being watched.

Or someone is playing a ginormous prank on me and thinks it’s funny to humiliate me after all I’ve been through. But who in the world would have time to enact that kind of child’s play?

I stuff the note into one of the drawers near the cash register at the sound of the bell ringing above the door. It’s a little early for my first customer but I thank the distraction for a few moments so that I can gather my wits.

As soon as my shift is over, I’ll go straight to the police. This has to be one of the girls, which means they might have found me after all, and I swear I will make them regret it.

I’m down to the last few minutes of work and I’ve had plenty of time to count the money in the drawer, close the register and put away the last few books that have been left scattered around. I go to flick off the lights and head back to the front to lock up, just as the bell above the door dings.

Mentally, I groan. Who the hell decided to be an absolute soul-sucker by walking into a place of business literally minutes before the doors lock?

I perk myself up and pretend to be the customer-facing worker that I normally am, plastering on a tired smile and turning to face the door.

“Hi, welcome in,” I offer to the emptiness in front of me, realizing that no one's there.

I watch as the door slowly inches back to place, indicating that someone had definitely walked in. But then I hear the howl of the wind in the distance, and I conclude that the harsh breeze must have forced it open.

I walk over and turn the deadbolt into place, even though I still have two minutes left until closing, and yes, normally I would stay open until the last second, but today has been a weird one. It was the busiest I’ve ever been on a Thursday and of course there’s the looming note stuffed in the drawer that’s been keeping me distracted most of the day.

I start to walk over to the desk to grab my things, the cream-colored paper included, but before I can let myself out, I hear what sounds like a book drop in the distance.

I shake my head, telling myself it’s just the wind outside rather than something lurking inside. Then I hear a shuffle and that’s when my heart stops. Someone did make it inside and I just didn’t see them get through.

Fuck, please don’t get robbed , I think to myself.

I pull out my pepper spray and place my backpack quietly by the door before tiptoeing toward the bookshelf I heard the noise come from. The bookstore is relatively small, but the shelves are overflowing with classics and romance novels and historical fictions. Not a single space on any given shelf is free, books piled to the brim, just how I like it. But now I wish I had better organization if only to give me an easier view beyond the piles of books. At any point, whoever is in here could jump around the corner and I’d never see them coming.

I hear what sounds like the pages of a book being gently flipped through. I take a deep breath hoping that it’s only a kid or a homeless person seeking shelter until I finally get close enough to one of the bookshelves and close my eyes before turning the corner.

There’s a man. He's wearing a solid black, silk button-down tucked into a pair of dark wash denim jeans and seemingly unbothered that he’s practically trespassing.

I can't help but watch him as he flips through the pages of a book delicately, and rightfully so. He's holding the oldest book the store owns. It's a first edition paperback of The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings by Edgar Allen Poe. Usually, my customers come in for a history book of the town of some sort or the latest spicy romance novel.

I lower my pepper spray and analyze him from a distance. It's the way that he leans so casually against the shelves, his feet crossed over each other as he skims the pages of the dusty old book. I want to keep watching, but my intrigue gets the best of me and my mouth is opening before I can help it.

"Edgar Allen Poe?" I ask curiously but also somewhat impressed, though not realizing that I just invited a conversation with someone who is impeding my closing time, and I have plans afterward to report my stalker.

The mysterious man closes the book gently and turns his head over his shoulder to look at me.

"What do you know about Poe?" he asks, and I find his response bemusing but I welcome it nonetheless.

"I know that he's macabre." I decide to entertain his topic as he turns his whole body to face me.

I have to lower my head and force myself to breathe steadily and not stutter over my thoughts because at first glance, his features mystify me. On second glance, looking up slowly so as to not seem too eager, I recognize that he is utterly gorgeous. Even in the dimly lit space between the bookshelves I can see the charm exuding from his demeanor. In fact, it gives him more of an appeal this way, but I don't want to show him I think so.

Just then, he smirks and I have to focus my attention on something else.

"I find his writings rather romantic," he argues back, and I almost have the courage to laugh at his conclusion.

I cross my arms over my chest and cock my head. "Romantic? I don't even think he writes a single romantic thing, unless you count Eleonora as romance." I'll be honest, I don't know much about the author, so I hope I'm not embarrassing myself. I too am one of those readers that would reach for an erotic romance before anything else.

"It depends on how you look at it." He leans up against the shelves again as he grins to himself, running his hands smoothly down the front of the tattered cover. It's intentional and careful the way he caresses the book, almost like he can appreciate fine beauty when he sees it. The gesture makes me blush.

I’ve never experienced having an attraction to someone before. But I would say that based on the way I feel as sweat percolates at my hairline, the way my eyes can’t seem to stop looking over every inch of his figure, feeling heat spike my skin as I do, solidifies that I am in fact heavily attracted to the man in front of me.

But strangers kind of scare me. If people whom I know in real life can treat me so brutally, then what would make me believe that a stranger wouldn't inflict the same kind of pain? The monomania is real, the belief that everyone is simply out to cause me harm. But his demeanor seems inviting, alluring, and warm and I have to thank the fact that I dimmed the lights a few minutes ago only for the simple thought that, hopefully, he can't see my cheeks glowing pink right now.

"It's horrific," I finally respond back, noticing that he was watching me, waiting for the response that took too long to manage.

"Horrifically romantic." His lips curl up again, a smirk that I know I'll never be able to forget, permanently engraved in my memory.

It's safe to say that I'm no longer worried about getting robbed or murdered in my place of work but the reason my heart skips a beat nonetheless, the reason why my words evade me, is his eyes.

He looks up from the book and settles his eye contact directly on mine. I feel myself gasp. Daunting, but in a beautiful way. Mesmerizing. A bright, rapturous green like I’ve never seen before. I have to close my eyes to avoid the sudden takeover of nerves that flood me.

I take a deep breath, allowing myself the beat to compose myself only to open my eyes and finding myself needing to examine the rest of him.

His dark hair accentuates his olive skin, his biceps tight in his shirt and the outline of his chest is visible against the restraints of the buttons. His jeans hug him in every delicious way possible. The curve of his lips intimidates me as he watches me, and I have no shame in doing so.

"Anyways, we're closed." I attempt to change the subject if only to escape the weird feeling I’ve subjected myself to. "So you'll have to come back tomorrow if you want to buy that horrifically romantic book.”

He reaches up to place the book back onto the top shelf where he got it. I watch in awe as I admire his height. He has to be at least six-four, easy. He didn’t even have to stretch to put that book back whereas I would have needed the step stool for the extra eight-inch lift.

I can't help but watch his body flex as he cautiously slides the book into place. It’s an attractively innocent gesture, one that has me really delusional to the fact that I’d let this man kidnap me, if I were into that kind of thing. He's attractive as fuck, and seemingly witty. But it’s not lost on me

I see him lower his head as he smirks to himself almost in a way that tells me he knows something that I don’t and that makes me feel like he’s got something on me, the playing field is unleveled.

My attention is finally pulled as the wind rattles against the windows in harsh whispers, as if in warning. Caution now engaged.

“My apologies,” he says, his voice is crafted with a smooth tone, a deep timbre and something nefariously comforting. Absolutely dreamy to say the least. "I wasn't aware of the hours."

“That’s okay, I can let you out behind me.” I step aside to let him walk past me, trying to keep my distance.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and tilts his head before getting the hint, walking past me and toward the door. I walk closely behind him, readily prepared to mace him in the face if he so much as turns around threateningly.

The click of his shoes echos as the only other thing I can focus on is my racing heart. His scent wafts behind him and hits me in my core. He smells like all things sinful and midnight. Intoxicating.

When we approach the door, he steps aside to let me unlock the door and as the deadbolt clicks, a small chuckle falls from his mouth.

“What’s so funny?” I ask him in a curious tone while I pick my bag back up off the floor where I’d left it.

“I can’t help but notice the pepper spray you clench firmly in your hands. Are you afraid I might be here for a reason other than a simple mistake?” His hands are still in his pocket as his eyes seemingly devour me. But I’m not gripping the mace because I’m afraid he’ll turn out to be an actual murderer of sorts. I squeeze the small device tightly because I can’t calm my racing heart, his presence is intimidating and I can’t seem to escape his air .

He has an air about him and it’s too much for me to handle right now.

"You did scare me, to be honest," I admit. "Not because you snuck in past me but because you think Poe is romantic," I quip, trying to lighten the mood in the most casual way I know how.

I toss my backpack behind me and fix the straps over my shoulders, tucking my hair behind my ear before unlocking the door and swinging it open for us to exit.

The October breeze immediately greets us, giving me a cooling factor to partially eliminate the heat that afflicted me.

I take a step outside onto the sidewalk, pressing my back up against the door to hold it open for him, but this man just stares at me from inside the store, and I feel my heartrate kick up again, worried that he really is going to try and murder me.

"I've never seen hair so winter before," he speaks and something in my belly flips.

"Winter?" I ask, feeling like I want to curl into myself. I never really liked being the subject of conversation, or receiving compliments if that's what this is. Only because I'm not used to it. When you grow up to the tune of unkind words constantly being thrown at you, you start training yourself into thinking that no one actually has anything nice to say. So when a pleasant gesture is verbally made, it feels a little overwhelming.

"Winter,” he repeats. “Resembling that of snow. It’s beguiling."

" Beguiling . That's a curious word. Are you saying that the color of my hair deceives you?" I shift with my bag on my shoulder and start to feel the sting of the cold air as it races through the night sky.

"I happen to have a meter for darkness, if you will. Just like in Winter, snow can fall from the sky exquisitely and in silence but oftentimes winters in general can be rather harsh and cruel.” His eyes are so fierce as he looks at me, nearly demanding my attention as his whiskey laced tone lingers between us. “Let's just say that I sense something inside of you that contradicts the beauty you so unabatingly possess. Your winter hair is a facade, am I right?" His words are like that of a match, striking against my ribcage and creating a flame that lights me in ways I can't even comprehend. How does he have so much power when he speaks?

I don't know what to say. I can’t even be sure that I understood what he just said. His voice takes up my good brain cells and morphs them into putty and all I can think about is how grossly impressed I am with this creature standing in front of me.

But also, I find myself harnessing annoyance. Sure, he's right. My hair disguises the fact that my reality is a much sadder and darker place than I want anyone to be privy to. But I didn't really know that until he just brazenly pointed it out.

He looks smugly into my eyes, proud, but almost with intention to dig deeper to the core of them and it makes me feel exposed and violated. I don't need some tall and handsome stranger trying to figure me out with the efforts on an ominous compliment.

A few beats pass by of us staring at each other before I decide that I'm done entertaining this man's agenda.

“Time to go,” I say plainly, trying to seem unaffected by anything he’s saying or doing, but it’s an act entirely, knowing that I really have been bothered by his presence in one way or another.

I look down at the stone sidewalk in order to think straight; thankful I don't have to walk further than around the building to get home. I also notice a few of those late-night walkers that seem to make an appearance every night after the sun sets; this town seems to crawl with curious minds and groups of mysterious laughter in the darkest hours. When I moved here, I didn't anticipate the cloak-and-dagger effect to be so prevalent. But at least I know someone will hear me scream if he or anyone else tries to make a move before I can get home safely.

The stranger standing inside my bookstore finally understands his task and walks through the threshold and stands on the other side of me by the entrance. I shut the door, and lock it with my key before turning around and leaving without another word, still bewildered and intrigued because what the hell was that?

"You didn't ask for my name," he raises his voice but still respectful in the manner he speaks to me, yet something dangerous plays in his tone.

"I don't need it," I singsong back without looking at him as I turn the corner leaving the terrifyingly charming man to the confines of the shadows.

Though, secretly, I do hope that I'll get to see him again.