Smile
The girl had worked at her father's book shop since she was twelve. It was an old, stuffy building, small and shabby. The windows were dusty, barely allowing the sunlight to penetrate, and the floor seemed odd to the touch; it felt powdery and looked un-kept. And somehow it reflected her, for she had suffered from a relentless, unsettling depression which had enraptured her since her brother's sudden passing mere days ago.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked, nearing the little man who sat atop of a pile of books, which lay scattered upon the floor.
"Oh dear," he replied, jumping off the small pile of books. Quickly, he dusted off his ill-fitting suit, which looked two sizes too small, and tightened his wrinkled tie, which looked two sizes too big. In fact, his tie looked as if it were a dinner napkin tucked away in his collar for a feast.
"I'm very sorry," he began in a kind, gentle voice, "but I was looking for a book to read." His bright blue eyes fixated upon the young girl, and behind her red framed glasses, dismal eyes watched him intensely. However, she had no response for him except for a sigh of disbelief, for she had never seen someone quite like him.
He was a peculiar thing; his head was much too big for his small, narrow shoulders, and his height was much too short for that of an average sized man. (the length of his walking cane accounted for that much.) His dark hair, which madly protruded out the sides of his derby hat, was wilder than her mother's garden vines, and his feet, engulfed in shoes that were three sizes too big, made her question his sanity.
However, he took no offense to her delayed response and patiently waited for her to speak, swishing his lips back and forth every once a while as if his black, toothbrush mustache was irksome. But she was left speechless and wondered if her eyes had deceived her. She even took off her glasses and stared at the little man before her. He truly was spectacular.
"We're closed," she said, eyes glancing past the little man and focusing upon the door behind him. Though she had locked it before retiring for the day like she always had, she found that it was open and she soon began to question her own sanity.
"Oh, I didn't see a sign," he said. But he quickly dismissed her concern and returned to his present dilemma, "Do you think you can help me find a book?" Tearing his eyes off of her and peering at the back shelf, crammed with books, his eyes trailed down the spines, scanning over the shimmering titles: The Land that Time Forgot, In Search of the Castaways, and A Black Arrow: Tale of the Two Roses.
"I'm looking for something adventurous; something funny and romantic," he added, hanging his flimsy cane upon his forearm and attempting to climb one of the nearby step ladders. He had spotted an interesting book. It was on the top shelf and as he stretched to reach it, he lost his balance and wobbled back and forth like a babe learning to walk.
"Who are you?" she questioned.
Sustaining his balance, he turned to her, surprised, and questioned, "Who, me?"
She furiously nodded, for she yearned for his response, and he beamed at her. Pressing his finger to his chest, which was constrained by a tiny vest, he announced himself, "I'm Charlie."
Before she could process his words or speak, he returned his attention to the books, for the epic poem sitting upon the top shelf was still appealing to him. He reached for it but paused when the young girl further questioned him,
"Who are you,really?"
"I'm Charlie," the little man responded with a singe of frustration in his voice, his mustache twitching. He furrowed his thick, uneven brows and stared at the girl below, clicking his tongue upon the roof of his mouth in discontent. And she sighed, wrapped her arms around her small frame, and shook her head in skepticism.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, climbing down the ladder and nearing her.
She shook her head and lifted her eyes to him, "Who are you in here?" Raising a finger and pressing it against his chest, she found that he didn't understand what she meant. But he tried. He placed his hand over hers and calmly said,
"Charlie."
"No, you're not," she stressed, snatching back her hand and crossing her arms. Turning away from him, she hunched her back and peered at the floor. And Charlie remained silent, but the sound of his heart falling from his chest and crashing into his over-sized shoes echoed about the small shop.
She shut her eyes and pretended to be unseen; she pretended that from behind his eyes weren't boring a hole into her back. She even tried to convince herself that he was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. Either way, she wished he would vanish.
"I'm dreaming," she mumbled. "I'm dreaming, and you're not really here." Tears escaped her closed lids as she remembered her brother; his dark hair which had always looked un-kept; his large eyes, shinning with curiosity, and his cheerful, childish laughter, which had always followed after a little man with a twitching mustache.
"But of course I'm here," said Charlie, summoning her to open her eyes and face him. With a sappy smile, he stretched out his arm, tilted his head forward, allowing his derby hat to fall over and roll down the length of his arm, and caught it in the palm of his hand.
"You're everything I always imagined you to be," she said absentmindedly, pausing to softly smile and shake her head in disbelief, "a funny, happy, little gentleman."
"There it is," Charlie said in glee, pointing to her smile. "See, I knew you could do it."