Discomfort Zone

I arrive at work more than thirty minutes late, so when I cross the threshold into the library and step into what should have been my comfort zone, the whole *Martha is going to kill me*-feeling puts a damper on even the tiniest sense of relief.

At the circulation desk, Martha stands like a sentinel of order. Her grey hair is pulled into a tight bun that looks more like a smooth round stone she's balancing on her head than hair, and her steely eyes fix on me. Judge, jury and executioner. I force a shaky smile despite knowing it won't help my case. Martha hates tardiness. I'm pretty sure that hatred was grown and cultivated inside her like a precious hothouse flower during her childhood studying at a catholic school for girls run by draconian nuns. 

"Skye, you're late," she says with all the feeling of a vending machine rejecting a crumpled bill.

I swallow hard, a vague apology caught somewhere between my throat and the chaos of my thoughts. I know better than to try to explain the morning I've had or bring up my failed engagement. Martha won't care. She sees me as a cog in the machine that is this library and she wants me to function, otherwise she'll have to replace me. The fact that finding a shiny new cog would mean extra work and expenses is probably the only thing saving me.

"I'm sorry, Martha. It won't happen again," I mumble, making myself small as I slink past. Martha likes displays of subservience, she responds to them like a vending machine would to a fresh new bill, by spitting out the thing I want.

In this case it's a gruff "Well, get to work." and no threat of disciplinary measures. *Phew.*

As I shuffle behind the desk, what little control I have over my feelings starts to slip. I stare blankly at my computer screen while the realization I've been pushing away since I first laid eyes on that bag of money threatens to overwhelm me.

*Derek does not love me. He does not want to marry me. Everything he did was because of the spell.* All the pleading, all the promises, breaking things off with Emily the Clown? None of it would have happened if I hadn't used that notebook.

Or would it?

Isn't there a chance that maybe my spell didn't work? Or at least didn't change him completely? What if Derek still had some love for me and the spell just inflated it a little or something? These are the straws I cling to while my fingers clack across the keyboard.

I sink into a monotonous routine of re-shelving books and stamping overdue notices, my mind swirling with that insidious question. Is there a snowball's chance in hell that Derek would have wanted me back if I hadn't done the spell? Chewing on my lip, my eyes brimming with tears, I struggle to arrive at a conclusion that isn't a resounding, soul-crushing NO.

Thankfully, it's a slow day. A few students are milling about, a couple of patrons come by to whisper hi. None of them comment on my devastated expression which probably means that Rica has already filled people in on my turbulent love life and warned them not to say anything or ask questions that might lead to a full public breakdown. I don't know whether to be grateful to her for that. 

Either way, Rica is quietly handling anything that would require actual brainpower, such as the basic computer skills class we offer to seniors in the community. I watch her flutter past in a cute ruffle hem dress with puff sleeves and an intricate floral print that definitely earned her a pointed remark from Martha on account of it ending about five inches above her knees.

I try to focus on work, I really do, but my mind is elsewhere, flitting nervously between imagining what m evening with Derek will be like now that I'm convinced I've turned him into a shell of himself, thinking about what Kaylee might be doing right now and how we'll handle that damn money - donate it? Would that save my karmic score from plummeting into the depths of hell?

And if it doesn't, what are the limits of the spell? If it can make cash appear out of thin air and give my fiancé a complete personality overhaul, what else is it capable of? Who wrote it into that notebook and what were they planning to do with it? How come they haven't tried to get it back?

Someone clears their throat and I realize that I've been staring blankly at my screen for what must have been minutes. I didn't even notice anyone walking up to me. I raise my eyes from the screen and force a professional smile.

"I'm sorry -- oh!" The apology just about makes it past my lips before my brain registers who is standing in front of my desk.

Dark curls framing eyes that are a mix of hazel and green, a slight smirk on lips that might have been chiseled out of stone by Michelangelo himself and a canine that sticks out just a little. The handsome stranger I bumped into what feels like a lifetime ago now.

"So you do recognize me, tiny thing. I was afraid you wouldn't."

*Tiny thing?* My face flushes. That nickname is pretty outrageous, not to mention unfitting. Who does he think he is? Actually, that's a good question: who is this guy?

His smirk falters when I don't reply.

"I'm sorry, was I being too forward? I didn't mean to offend you. I just didn't know what else to call you." His expression has turned sheepish and he rubs the back of his neck. I can see the fabric of his shirt strain around his biceps when he bends his arm. This is kind of funny, a second ago he acted like a smooth playboy, now he's turned into a cute boy next door, which, I have to admit, works wonders on me. "I guess we never got around to introductions last time," he adds, a hopeful look in his eyes. They have a subtle slant to them like cat's eyes, I notice.

*Shit, I have to stop noticing all the attractive qualities he has!*

I tug on the name tag attached to my sweater, stretching the fabric to bring it closer to him. He squints. "Skye Faulkner? That's a very beautiful name. Are you related to William Faulkner by any chance?"

"No," I chuckle at the ludicrous question, "not that I know of."

"Eh, come on, it's not that far-fetched, a beautiful librarian and a beautiful poet?"

I roll my eyes at the excessive flattery. He's laying it on too thick for my tastes. There's something about the way he said eh, though, that makes something click in my head. "Are you Italian?"

He laughs and the corners of his mesmerizing cat eyes crinkle slightly. "Ah, you've caught me, yes, I am Italian, but I have lived in the US for years now. I was hoping to pass!"

"You do, for the most part, but the shameless flirting kind of gives it away." I allow myself a small smirk and for a second the veil of misery lifts just the tiniest bit. "So, what's your name?"

"Raphael Spataro." He offers his hand and I take it. His grip is firm, his palm much larger than mine and there are calluses at the base of his fingers. When his hand practically engulfs mine, a pleasant shiver runs up my spine. I know I'm blushing and hate myself for it. I have much bigger, more pressing problems than this. This shouldn't even register. I shouldn't have the brain space to flirt, even as innocently as this, when I've already ruined one man's life.

He lets go of my hand after what simultaneously feels like forever and way too short. I want to kick myself for that thought.

"It was nice meeting you," I tell him instead, hoping to end this interaction although, truth be told, I'd like to stay in it for the escapism if nothing else. Not the flirting, I assure myself, the flirting is fun and he's definitely handsome, but my heart still belongs to Derek. Never mind that I'm actively dreading seeing him after work because I have no idea what to say to him now. Everything's a mess.

He nods and smiles his intriguing smile. "Maybe I'll see you around again, eh?" There's a wink and a little wave and then he turns and I get to watch him walk away. I exhale, feeling relieved and a little disappointed too.

*

The day drags on. 

With every passing hour I get more nervous about facing the outside world again. Derek and Kaylee and all my problems.

By the time we start closing up, the oppressive hum of the lights mixed with my own inner turmoil buzzing around inside me has given me a headache.

Then Rica appears at my desk—her floral perfume wafts over as she leans towards me and intermingles with the minty aroma of her chewing gum. "Hey, Skye," she says, her tone breezy, "a kid from that high school class came by asking about a lost notebook."

For a moment, the world tilts, and I feel that familiar, icy dread coalesce in my stomach. The notebook—that cursed magical object!— someone's actually looking for it? How much do they know about its powers? Have they used it as well? 

"What did they say?" I ask, my voice sounding strangely detached.

"Just that we should contact them if it turns up," Rica replies. "They left their number." She pushes a scrap of paper across the surface of my desk. Someone's cell phone number is scrawled on it in blue ballpoint pen. "Since you've got it, you should do the honors, right?"

"Yeah, sure." I nod and smile vaguely, my stomach in knots. "I'm definitely going to do that."

*Shit.* I think. *Shit, shit, shit.*