The Nook

I’m generally not a selfish person, but one must understand the unwritten rules of the nook. I made my way up the stairs, each solid oak step creaking beneath my weight. At the top, I was relieved to see that I had it all to myself. I sat my belongings on the live edge table next to some out-of-print literary magazines and cozied up against the edge of my favorite window. Raindrops slowly trickled down one by one outside, gently tapping the tin roof below. The sound of a splashing puddle and spray of water occurred with each passing car. I opened a book that I brought and began to read. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg quickly neutralized the sound of steam and foam hissing downstairs. 

Whenever I ventured upstairs and found the nook all to myself, a euphoric sensation tickled my brain as though I had won a prize. And if anyone else wandered up there, their face would sulk with disappointment as they began their search for a lesser spot. 

As I flipped to the next page of my novel, I felt, out of the corner of my eye, the weight of someone staring at me. I turned slightly and saw a young woman look away. Surely, she must’ve been someone else seeking out the nook only to be disappointed that I already claimed it. I didn’t think anything of it and kept reading, the rain outside the window growing steadier. I then glimpsed above my book, only to find the woman was making herself at home right in front of me on the opposite corner of the nook. Not even the slightest greeting on arrival or a “care that I join you” or any sort of acknowledgment that she was breaking the unwritten code of the nook.

Of course, I couldn’t actually say anything since this was technically a public space. Who was I to lay sole claim on the nook? I hoped that my annoyance would subside. I could tell from the top corner of my page that she could care less about my presence. She sat with her shoes off, crosslegged, staring out the window at the rain. Her posture was such that I began to feel that I was intruding on her space, though I was the one who arrived at the nook first. I just kept reading and tried to keep my eyes on the page. I didn’t want to give her the impression that her presence affected me in any way.

Upon each page turned, I couldn’t help but steal a brief glimpse. Her curly dark hair hung ornamentally over the frame of her glasses. The sweater she wore looked either knit or crocheted, though I have to admit, I can’t point out the difference in texture. The color, though, matched her deep brown eyes, which continued to gauze out the window. She held a small journal in her hand, which she scratched into with her pencil.

I continued to read to the end of my chapter before I placed my bookmark inside my book and closed it. I sat my book down with the rest of my belongings. I avoided glancing at her as she still scribbled away in her journal. I needed to visit the restroom. I decided that my belongings would be safe left unattended with the woman. Her disposition didn’t suggest that of a thief.

After doing my business, I climbed back up the steps, and sure enough, both the woman with the dark curls and my belongings were still there, unmoved. She didn’t glance up to acknowledge my arrival. She just kept marking in her journal. As I headed back to my corner of the nook, I managed to catch a glimpse of what she was jotting down.

Instead of writing, there was a figure of a man who must’ve been me as he was posed in the corner exactly as I was sitting, reading a book. I finally broke the awkward silence. 

“That picture you’re drawing… It’s me, isn’t it?”

She finally glanced up at me and grinned sheepishly. 

“Could be,” she coyishly replied, holding up her journal so that I could see it. 

“I can’t decide if that’s flattering or… creepy.”

“Creepy?” 

She looked perplexed.

“I meant you drawing me without my permission.”

“Oh, sorry.”

She began to rise as though to leave in a hurry.

“Oh, no, you’re drawing is beautiful.”

She eased back into her seat. 

Did I really mean that? Was her picture of me really beautiful, or was I just trying to qualify a rather cross, unfriendly remark? I reached out my hand, and she handed me her journal. Indeed, each crosshatch and line was swift and elegant. The hazy background made my figure in the foreground look three-dimensional. She took great care to incorporate perspective, which made my vision immerse itself into the whole image.

“It is. It’s… beautiful,” I reiterated.

“Thanks,” she replied meekly.

“May I ask, just out of curiosity, what compelled you to draw a picture of me sitting in this nook?”

She tore the drawing out of her journal and handed it to me.

“Maybe it isn’t so much about you but how the rain pours down the window pane. Here, it’s yours now.”

I looked again at the drawing, focusing my attention on the window this time. The rain looked harder and more dramatic than it did in the moment. I glanced back at my facial expression and how I gazed out the window. My face looked shadowy and dark. It looked as though the storm brewing behind the window panes was emanating out of my eyes.

“Why did you draw me like this?”

“The way you sit in here, day after day, ordering the same thing, staring the same way out of this window. It’s striking to me. I knew I couldn't get an honest depiction if I asked if I could draw you. So maybe it was a little about you. And now you have a little window into your mind.”

At that, she nodded adieu, slipped on her shoes, and headed for the stairs.

“Wait, but how did you know…”

Before I could finish my sentence, she was halfway down the stairs. I then noticed the rain subsided, giving way to a red, glowing sunset that made the wet window panes sparkle and glisten. Everything fell silent, and I had the whole nook to myself again.