Today's Reading
I quickly scan the library's barcode on the cover and return the book in the system, noting the borrower's name. Tai Davis. I'd only moved to Little Creek (pronounced crick, like the ache you'd get in your neck) six months ago, and though the town is small, the name Tai Davis doesn't ring any bells.
But if he's willing to mutilate almost every page of a book, I really don't trust him to roam the aisles of the library unsupervised. I take my job as protector of free thought, untold universes, awaiting adventures, and expanding personal perspectives seriously. Because books are more than just paper and ink. They're a portal leading to anywhere you ever wanted to go—heart, mind, or soul.
Hayley and Martha, the children's librarian, like to tease me about my strict standards when it comes to the treatment of books. Martha points out that at least my patrons don't chew on the pages of paperbacks, the books coming back soggy, slobbery, and smelling of spit-up. She has a point, and I also concede that I may go beyond the bounds of what's deemed the appropriate amount of caring when it comes to library property, but I can't help it. Books are my friends, and I can't stand to see them bullied. Call it my quirk.
I straighten my leopard-print pencil skirt, then run my thumb along the waistband to make sure my vintage library due date card graphic tee is tucked in before I step around the beveled corner of the desk and head toward the back of the library.
Between the J and K shelves, I spot him. The same black leather jacket pulled taut between impressively wide shoulders and ending in large silver buckles at a trim waist. His head is bent, and although I can't see what's in his hands, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes on the case to figure out it must be an open book. Location is a dead giveaway.
I walk softly in my red canvas high-tops to the aisle of shelves just on the other side of him. I can watch him through the small space between the top of Walter Isaacson's published works and the bottom of the metal shelf holding our copy of Antonia Fraser's writings on Mary, Queen of Scots, and Oliver Cromwell.
The man isn't that tall. Maybe a smidge over an inch of my own five-foot-three frame. With my restricted view between the shelves, I can only really see from the top of his shoulders to the middle of the back of his head. His hair is thick, black as an inkwell, and swirls softly over the large collar of his biker-style jacket like an artistic script font. He turns, putting himself in profile, and I suck in a sharp breath.
I blame my reaction on surprise and the ingrained teachings of my granny, Carol Sykes. I've never seen anyone with a neck tattoo in person before.
According to her, the only people who would permanently mark themselves in such a visible location on their bodies are "dangerous" and I should "stay away for my safety" because they probably "got their tattoos either in jail or as a gang sign." Which, to be fair, maybe was the case fifty years ago? I don't know. I wasn't alive fifty years ago, and things do tend to change over the course of a couple generations.
Even though I read profusely and open my mind to many different viewpoints, the voice of my childhood—of my granny—is still loudest overall. Which is probably the reason I subconsciously take a step back. It's definitely not because I correlate a human canvas with anything deviant or think that he "put graffiti on God's temple," or that he will "regret his decisions when he's old and wrinkled."
But even from this distance, the beautiful artwork draws my eye—so much so that granny's voice in my mind fades as my focus pools to one location.
It's a simple red rose with unfolding petals so soft looking that I want to run my finger over the bloom to feel the velvety texture. It's delicate. Intricate. Beautiful. Made even more so because of the contrast of the hard lines framing the picture. The strong angle of the man's stern jaw ends in a powerful set chin. Even his neck is corded muscle and thrumming veins, a juxtaposition against the soft blossom.
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach, though I can't pinpoint its exact cause.
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