Cold rain travels down little gray rivers on the bookstore window. Inside the old bookstore it is neither warm, nor cozy, although it is certainly supposed to be that kind of place. I can hear the muffled sniffles and coughs of patrons with their winter colds that started in the early fall and last sometimes until the sun decides to stroll into June. Occasionally, a sniffler will ask me where such and such book is. I carefully and pointedly pull a directory from the stack of directories clearly displayed on the counter. Softly pointing to the section, I show the hapless customer where the book can be found.
The radio softly plays 90’s grunge music which still sounds new to me, even though I know those songs are almost 20 years old now. My thoughts float over the floorboards and in between customers and around the shelves, overstuffed with attractive books from “acclaimed new writers”. I feel a cold, damp wind on my shoulders as the front door opens. I glance up as the second floorboard creaks and wet shoes squeak. A harried woman ushers in two children, both of whom are begging loudly to jump in the puddles.
“Shhhhh, “ she murmurs. “Remember to use your inside voice.” She looks up apologetically at me as the two of them run with loud feet to the children’s section and start to rough up the books on the shelves. I shoot her back an “I understand” kind of look. True enough, I do understand.
I’d had two babies too. Robust, healthy children. Smart and beautiful. Everyone envied me them, and for good reason. They were everything a mother could want.
If a mother wanted children.
I push my hair back and turn my thoughts away to ring up the next customer. A marketing book and two Penthouse Letters. Must be here on business. I barely acknowledge his presence during the transaction. That was one of the promises to myself that I kept. I promised that I would never again have to be nice if I didn’t want to be nice. When I worked in a bookstore in Seattle, I could be as rude as I felt like. When I worked at a bookstore in Seattle, I could do anything I wanted. I promised myself this over and over, in doctors’ office waiting rooms, and in the desperate and depressing search for day cares, and in the middle of the fights and the screaming.
I’ve kept all my new promises, the ones I made to myself. I walked everywhere in this town, walked and walked and walked until my feet were as numb as my heart. The pounds dropped off, and now I draw the men, even when I’m not trying. I’ve had them too. Their place, mostly. The walls of my sublet are too thin, and it’s not exactly the sexiest place, with my clothes on a rack and a bed on a metal frame and my computer precariously perched on some crates. The tricky bit though, is that now that I can have them all, I don’t want any of them. And who would want me if they knew?
I have no ambitions. I work in my bookstore, just like I planned. I make enough to pay my rent and support my DSL window to the world. I read. I take leisurely baths. I spend afternoons at public museums and paint in the park. I live in the silence I craved.
Back where I didn’t keep my promises, my children are still noisy.