Property of Mel.

I’ve been here before, but never with this feeling. I’ve walked through the aisles of this quaint corner side bookstore more times than I could ever recall. 

Rain pours down gently on the old foggy glass windows, which shadow the room with various shapeless patterns as figures of various shapes and sizes move along in their meticulous routines. As always I move to my left, my feet follow their usual rhythm, gliding between small tables covered in thick layers of discount books, new releases and collections of novels with elegant artwork and spectacular leatherwork. 

I reach the fantasy aisle, my regular hotspot. 

I draw upon a regular gaze as I stroll back and forth along the aisle, standing up with the sharpest edge of my toes to peer along the tallest shelves, and resting myself on the floor while I investigate the lower shelves.

But it doesn’t feel the same, nothing has today.

I lack the feel of excitement when I discover a new book or the quiet contempt of reading pages from old books that I’ve read dozens of times but have never enjoyed enough to buy for myself. 

I slowly drift towards the back of the store as I always do, pass romance, pass thrillers and crime novels, through the children’s books and manga, and find myself amongst poetry and classics. Regular classics surround me such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula, The Tales of Sherlock Holmes, Macbeth and Hamlet and collections of Edgar Allan Poe, H.P Lovecraft and Charles Dickens. 

It is very rarely I visit this corner but each time I am enamoured by the brilliance in writing and passion for language that each book overflows with. 

Except for today. Today these words appear as nothing more than that, Words. Their passion flickers with a diminished spark and their brilliance seeps from thinly veiled cracks within the infinite recesses of their meaning.

And as my thoughts race away into endless abandon, I suddenly find myself in one part of the store I have very rarely seen, I find in my hands a colourful book, the spine is a bright yellow, the cover is mostly a pale blue except for the centre, which again is a bright yellow square filled with black ink.. It reads ‘The School of Life - An Emotional Education’ by Alain de Botton.

Although I’ve rarely ventured through this aisle, I recognise the books on the shelves in front of me. They’re usually on the small tables at the front of the store, in small stacks and usually with familiar titles.

I recognise that they’re self-help books, I’ve never really read one nor have shown interest in them but today it feels as though this aisle speaks to me. 

It’s like a gentle song that sailors would shiver at the sound of, akin to that of a deadly siren. 

I’m drawn to inspect this aisle just like any other, I stray back and forth, standing on my toes and resting on the rough carpet when I find the chance. 

Unlike my usual rhythm though, I find myself carefully spying each cover as though I’m subconsciously looking for something. 

I pick each book up, inspect the cover, title, authors name and even read the blurb. I open to a random page and read it. I do this with almost every book in the aisle. 

But each book seems to convey the same message, the same ideas, the same philosophy. They say that these feelings are nothing irregular, that it will all get better, that things will be better than before. And for some reason this seems to stir a strange feeling within me, a feeling that what I’m reading is the only solution, but to me it feels like there should be more.

I conflict on whether there could really be something greater, a greater meaning, a greater ending, or whether my heart is desperately grasping for something more.

I’ve spent hours here now, trailing back and forth, I’d repeatedly go back to fantasy, drift to poetry and classics and then somehow find myself back here, staring at the vast array of colourful books inspiring hope for dreaded individuals. 

The rain drops with a heavier beat and I see the street outside is slowly emptying as the sun comes closer to setting.

Suddenly, I hear a faint ring from the front of the shop, it is of course the small bell nailed to the door frame to help the owner stay alert for customers, but this is the only time I’ve heard it ring today. 

I attempt to look inconspicuous as I look out towards the door and spot the new arrival. 

A young girl, with raven black hair, dark eyes, and a subtle yet unique smirk spread across her face that is complimented by the stray bits of wet hair that stick to her cheeks. She is wearing a large black jumper, tight blue jeans and a pair of leather boots which all seem to match the simple black canvas bag she has slung over her shoulder. 

At first I think she won’t stay long, but I see her start to explore the shop, I see her move to her left, past the small front tables and into the fantasy aisle, I lose sight of her only to see her drift towards poetry and classics, her smirk twists and turns as she inspects different books and reorganises shelves. 

She starts to make her way toward the aisle I’m in and in a desperate attempt to look as regular as I can be I grab the closest book.

She turns into the aisle and gasps suddenly, “Oh I’m sorry,” she quickly throws out. “I thought I was the only person here.” she says softly afterward.

As she says this I only now come to the realisation that I’ve been alone in the store this whole time, wrapped up in my rhythm and movements, ignoring the outside world. 

“Sorry, it’s just me here.” I reply softly but with enough confidence to help the young girl relax and lower her guard.

She seems to be staring at my hands for a moment before suddenly reaching into her bag. 

She pulls out a book I recognise and holds it up. 

“We’re twins!” She exclaims with a massive grin that shuts her eyes and defines the dimples in her cheeks. 

I look down at my hands and see the same book, ‘The School of Life - an Emotional Education’.

“Oh, I’ve been going back and forth trying to pick a book out, but this is the only one that’s really caught my eye.” I reply, struggling to maintain any form of confidence as nerves begin to take hold.

She looks me in the eyes with a direct gaze, and suddenly it feels as if I’m locked in hers, bewildered by something unimaginable. Her lips pucker with a look of curiosity before rapidly reverting back to her regular grin. 

“Take my copy! I just finished it, and it’s full with notes so I can’t return it anyway.” She says this with glee while handing the book to me. Small leather bracelets and rings of beads appear from under her sleeves as her arms stretch towards me, and the black of her false nails seem to stand out against the colourful cover.

I take it and open to the first page, already I see scribbles and notes on the edges of the page.

The handwriting is elegant and neat, different notes are in different colours, words and meanings are in orange, opinions on topics in blue, and meaningful passages are underlined or circled in green. 

“Are you sure?” I respond, with doubt in my voice. 

“It seems like it has lots of meaning to you.” I follow with, trying to keep our eyes locked within each other’s. 

“Of course I’m sure!” She replies hastily. 

“And who said you were taking it!? I expect it back soon.” She adds, once again smirking while gently brushing aside the partially dried hair that still clings to her face. 

Before I can say anything else, she asks me “Hey, have you seen my Father?? He’s usually around here keeping the place tidy.”

“He works here?” I ask in response.

“No silly! It’s his shop.” She chuckles while saying it and looks away for a moment to break the contact for a moment before following up with, “Well, he must be upstairs or something, I’ll find him eventually.”

She spins gracefully on the ball of her left foot and makes her way towards an old wooden door in the back of the shop, her hair and jumper still swaying from the sudden movement. 

She pulls an old set of keys from her bag and begins to unlock the door, I hear a soft click from within the lock but before she touches the knob she spins back on her right foot and gives me one last cheerful grin.

“I expect to see that book again soon.” she states, almost authoritarian-like but then immediately retreating back into a cheerful exterior.

“I’ll be back tomorrow then.” I try to imitate her grin before turning away, and hear her chuckle once more as she opens the door and walks up a set of old, rickety wooden steps. 

I open the front door of that quaint, corner side bookstore and step out into the street, only to realise the rain has stopped and the sky glows with faint orange and pink swirls as the sun slowly sets in the west. 

I turn down the street and begin to make my way home, as I turn down the next road I stop for a moment and look at the book in my hands. 

I carefully open up the front cover, expecting for it all to have been a daydream. Inside I see all the notes I read before, underlines, circles, arrows and clouds decorate the page. I pull open the cover a little bit more and peer on the inside to see a colourful little sticker, it’s cover in glue, tape, glitter and various bits of sparkling plastic. 

In the middle of the sticker reads, in that familiar elegant handwriting. ‘Property of Mel’. Various little drawn flowers, skulls and other little drawings surround the sticker, reminding me of books you’d find in a school library, drawn and coloured and personalised beyond return.

The name sticks in my head, Mel. For some strange reason I begin to repeat her name in my head and each time I do it makes be bear a smile that I had not expected to find today. 

I continue walking home with her name in my head, a smile on my face, and a long night of reading ahead of me as the sun slowly sets behind me. Beckoning the end of the day with a veil of stars and gentle moonlight.