Wounded

Wounded

When I first met Belle, it hurt like hell. No, I did not intend that to rhyme, but it’s nevertheless the truth.

I have a habit of wandering around the local bookstore on Friday nights, enjoying the serenity that books produce just by being near them. The smell of paper and book binding and the classic wood shelving that this mom-and-pop shop still uses, are enough to wipe away most of my stress from the week. Thompson’s BookCellar was a neighborhood institution, and a personal treasure.

I tended to gravitate to the sci-fi section, which is where I found myself on this particular Friday evening. I wasn’t looking at anything in particular; I was just glossing over the titles and admiring the artwork. One colorful book caught my eye. I don’t remember the title or the author anymore. It doesn’t really matter anyway. 

As I reached my right hand out to grab the spine of the book, I suddenly felt a raking pain flair across the back of my hand.

I pulled it back to see the one-inch gash quickly welling with blood. Only then did I look up to see what had happened.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...” was all the woman next to me could say. With her hands covering her mouth in shock, I could clearly see the enormous 200 carat diamond ring that had plowed a furrow in my hand. Okay, it was probably only half a carat, but the sting in my hand made it seem much bigger.

I took a breath through the pain. “It’s okay. It was just an accident. We were obviously reaching for the same book. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find someplace where I can wash this and get it bandaged.”

I began to walk past her when she shouted, “Wait! Come with me!”

She grabbed my left arm, the one with the undamaged hand, and not-quite-gently guided me to the door at the back of the store. She took the badge I had been too distracted to notice and swiped it across the access pad, allowing the door to click open. 

I had entered the inner sanctum. A place where most book lovers only dream of venturing. Even with the pain that was beginning to throb in my hand, I couldn’t help but gawk at the simple industrial feel of the long MDF-topped table and wall shelving lined with stacks of books. There were carts full, and others empty, along with stacks of unopened boxes, and bundles of broken down cardboard. It smelled of ‘book’, and it was Nirvana.

Too bad I was in too much discomfort to enjoy it for long. The ache was growing quickly, and I was at serious risk of spilling blood all over the place. I was also being quickly herded to another door in the corner of the large workspace. A bathroom.

My unintentional attacker wordlessly guided me to the sink, placed my hand under the faucet, and turned on the cold water. Beside the sink was a wall-mounted metal box, which she opened to reveal a well-stocked emergency kit for just this type of situation. 

She shut off the water after a minute and allowed my hand to shed some of the moisture. The cold water had helped to wash away and stem the blood, mostly. She removed gauze pads from the cabinet and gently patted the wound dry, finally holding the gauze in place while the bleeding ebbed.

With our rush settling into a lull, I finally had a moment to look at the woman tending me.

To say I was smitten would be an understatement. She made the backroom Nirvana look no better than purgatory. 

Everything about her face spoke of care and compassion. The way her eyes glistened and focused on her task. The way her lip curled with worry as she tended my wound. It wasn’t just how she looked either. It was the tenderness of her touch, and how she took such care in doing so. She was intentional yet gentle, despite the way she’d initially hustled me into the back. This was a person less concerned about what had happened than with the person it had happened to. This was a person who cared about others more than she cared about herself or the circumstances. Yes, I saw all this in those few actions. Don’t judge me. You know I’m right.

Clearing my throat with difficulty, I tried to diffuse the tension a bit. “Um…could I at least learn the name of my attacker?”

That was the completely wrong thing to say, as evidenced by the shock and welling of tears in her eyes. I shook my head, waved my free hand and tried again. “No, no! I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to accuse you. I was just trying to be funny. I’ll never do that again. My name is Alex. What’s yours?”

With her unoccupied hand, she wiped at the corners of her eyes, and, with a bit of a sniffle, introduced herself. “I’m Belle. Yes, I know it’s a stupid name. I blame my parents.”

I thought her name was quite accurate, to be frank. “How is that a stupid name?”

She rolled her eyes, but before answering, she checked my wound, which she’d been holding the pad against the whole time, and found that it was no longer bleeding. Resuming her ministrations, she pulled a large bandage from the cabinet along with a tube of antibiotic ointment. Spreading the ointment along the cut, she then carefully applied the bandage over the wound so that it was completely covered.

She gently took my hand and looked it over to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. I felt like my hand was being held by clouds.

“My parents were Disney freaks when I was born,” she spoke into the silence. “They probably would have called me Belle even if I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but even I have to admit that I was cute.” This last statement brought a bit of color to her cheeks. 

“Anyway,” she continued, as she made her way out of the bathroom. I followed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention and gouged you.”

I waved her off. With my bandaged hand. “No worries. I didn’t even notice you there, to be honest, and having interest in the same book isn’t a crime.”

She dipped her head and sighed. “I didn’t really care about the book, unfortunately. I was just straightening the shelves and noticed that one was in the wrong section entirely. Obviously, I didn’t see you either.”

“So, you work here?” I rolled my eyes at the stupidity of my own question, considering that we were standing in the backroom where all the book magic happens. “I’m here most weeks, but I don’t remember ever seeing you.”

Belle opened the door back out to the store and waved me through, closing the door behind us when she exited. We made our way to the front, where I’d left my backpack.

“I don’t usually work on Fridays, but I’m here a few days a week, if my studies allow. My parents don’t hold me to any specific hours.”

I stopped walking. “Wait, you’re a Thompson? Your parents own this store?”

“Yup.” Belle stuck out her hand. “Belle Thompson, at your service. Offering books…and medical services as needed.” She gave me an apologetic smile as I grasped her offered hand. 

“I’m glad to have met you, Belle, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.” I momentarily considered asking Belle if she’d be interested in getting a drink with me sometime. That is, until I remembered what it was that injured me in the first place. She was engaged. “I’ll let you get back to your work. I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

Belle, noticing the direction if my eyes, briefly looked at the ring before responding, “Yeah, right. Of course. It was good to meet you too.” She quickly turned and walked toward the registers.

I gathered up my backpack and stopped by to grab the book we’d collided over. If I was going to get mauled over a book, I might as well take a closer look at it.

The store had several sets of chairs where patrons could get a feel for books they might buy. Some people took advantage and treated the store as more of a library, but he understood that the Thompsons didn’t discourage it. It was a rare occurrence, and the Thompsons were more interested in encouraging reading than squeezing wallets. They’d been known on a few occasions to silently send those special customers away at closing time with book in hand. Sometimes, they even brought them back. 

As a result, theft was low, and Thompson’s BookCellar was never short on paying customers.

I took a seat at one of two chairs beside a small round table. With my backpack beside the chair, I crossed my legs and lost myself in the pages of the book.

It wasn’t long, however, before the solitude of reading was interrupted by a grunt, followed by a falling body beside me. In the slow motion of nearly every disaster, I watched Belle pitch forward toward the floor. As she reached out to break her fall, her left hand barely missed the table. But her ring somehow managed to catch the bottom edge, snap, and drag a line across the back of her hand.

Being seated, with my hands full of book, there was nothing I could do but watch until the split-second incident was over. At that point, I committed the cardinal sin of tossing the book over his shoulder. Sue me. It was the quickest way of dumping it without inadvertently dropping it on Belle. I knelt down to check on her.

“Are you okay? Did you hurt anything other than your hand?”

Belle shook her head, in obvious pain. I carefully helped her to her feet. I didn’t need to think twice as I gently guided her to the back of the store. I wasn’t so rude as to grab the badge hanging down from her neck, but Belle had the presence of mind to swipe us into the back room.

I took the same steps Belle had with me. I washed, dried, and put pressure on the wound, applying antibiotic ointment and then the bandage. My hands were far less smooth and supple than hers, but I was as gentle as I could possibly be. In all of that, I was fully aware that Belle never took her eyes off my face.

“Thank you,” she whispered when I was done. 

I bowed my head. “My pleasure. What happened out there?”

Her cheeks darkened a bit. “I…uh…got distracted, and tripped over your bag. I hope I didn’t break anything.”

“Not in my bag, unless you’re capable of breaking gym clothes.” I looked down at her injured hand. “But it looks like you broke your engagement ring. I’m really sorry about that. I hope your fiancé has it insured.”

She dropped her head. “Yeah…about him…” she paused briefly before continuing, “…he doesn’t exist. It’s a cheap glass ring, intended to keep creeps and jerks away.” She covered her face with her hand.

“Ah. I see. Is it working?” I asked.

“Not always. The real creeps and jerks don’t actually care.”

I nodded. “Truer words have never been said.” I wasn’t sure what more to say, so I ushered her back into the store. As we made our way to the front, I was about to ask her out, but Belle spoke first.

“I don’t think I’m going to be very useful the rest of the day with this, seeing as how I’m left-handed.” she said, waving her injured hand. “I’m going to tell my dad I’m heading out. I was an extra hand anyway, no pun intended. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Your fiancé won’t mind?” I joked.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”