Stunted Growth
by Fahiru
They weren't always very creative.
In all honestly, she was the only one who ever bought them. But she always bought lots of them, saying they were presents; for friends, family, anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, mourning, anything. She would only buy those ones.
He asks why she likes them so much.
She grins, mischievously, always mischievously. "I can't tell. You wouldn't like my reasons, and then you'd stop selling them to me."
He feels slightly uncomfortable with this answer. Then, afraid she is amused by some lack of articulation or grotesque symbolism, he promptly shoos her out of the book shop.
He takes to buying ice early on Wednesday mornings so that it's ready for his forehead by the time she leaves. It irritates him that she comes in the middle of the week, always on the same day. The day when everyone else is buying out the stock at the specialty shops. Whenever she comes it is just the two of them.
She arrives an hour or two past dawn and wastes away time prattling about nothing as he wistfully watches people hurrying past the store to the market square. He rubs the dark stubble on his chin as he pines after all the fresh goods that have come into the market today. She pulls him away from his mournful thoughts, waving a book in his face.
"This is the last one. Restock, please."
"No one reads those, I don't need to."
"I need at least five copies. Restock."
"Your friends aren't going to read them, no matter how many you buy."
"They're for me, I need you to get more."
"For you? How many do you need?"
"All of them. As many as you can get, I'm running out."
"Running out? You're not selling them second-hand, are you?"
"Of course not."
"Good, 'cause that's my livelihood, not yours. You only need one."
"I need all of them, they're valuable."
"Are you doing a collection?"
"Of sorts."
"They won't be worth much more after the author dies, so I would invest in something else, if I were you."
"They're worth everything. I need you to get me all of them."
"If you do that, then you'll definitely be the only one reading them."
"Good, they're mine anyways."
He raises an eyebrow. "Claiming to be the needlessly enigmatic Ehrlich now, are you?"
"No, I meant the story. I'm the only one who may read it."
"And rest-assured, the only one who ever will."
He shuffles her out of the store, her long braid catching in the door as she huffs out.
"What's so good about those stories?"
She grins dreamily. "It's a secret."
The grin irritates him. "Any secret of yours probably isn't worth knowing. Keep it to yourself."
"Jerk. You wouldn't believe what wonderful secrets I have. I bet you never had the imagination to make one good secret in your entire life."
Shows what you know. "What does imagination have to do with secrets?"
She looks away, puckering her lips into a pout. "Anyway, it's your bookstore, you should have already read them."
"You shouldn't back out of your own fights, even when they're petty."
"If it doesn't sell well, then it's only because you can't suggest it because you didn't read it."
"I don't have time to read it. Besides, You buy them all anyways, so you won't hear me complaining."
"You do. All the time."
"What kind of moron..."
"And I have to buy all of them."
"Well, if you love books so much, why don't you sell them?"
"You said so yourself that there's no time to read them if you're selling them. I couldn't do it."
"For loving them so much, you sure are heartless."
"Well, you don't seem to love them at all."
"You're such a snob, you know that? Only buying these books, as if there's something wrong with the rest of them."
"There is. I like those, but these are the only ones I love. Those ones aren't Ehrlich's."
"You're an idiot. Get out of my store, you stupid kid."
"Get a shave, you old man!"
He rubs his face thoughtfully as she stalks off into the evening. He pauses outside the shop, watching the golden dusk fade to cold gray over the city's rooftops. He was going to shave that night, but now decides to leave the sparse growth just to spite her. He rubs his forehead. The headache is a little less painful this week.
He finishes the book before morning.
It only made him feel a little guilty waiting until the next market day to get it bound. After all, it was more practical this way, more efficient. The dumb girl could wait an hour.
The book-binder does a good job, beautiful one, actually. The binding is soft and smooth, smelling crisp and dry, like Autumn. Like the color orange.
There is only one copy.
He passes through several stalls, past baskets of fruit and vegetables, cuts of meat hanging on hooks, delicacies that make his mouth water after months of missing them. He buys little pouches of cinnamon and whole nutmeg.
There are many frequenters of his shop here. He stops to talk with them, about research materials, up and coming authors, old classics. He spends a good deal of time there, it is nearly noon. He looks at the sky and begins to amble back to the street where his own shop is located.
Someone stops him, asking about the book. He says it's not for sale. They say they only want the leather, he again says it's not for sale. They take him by the collar, reaching for the book. He jerks away, slamming into the side of the building. He feels something sharp against his right wrist and loses his grip on his purchases. The noise makes the stranger straighten up and stride away nonchalantly as a few people strut over to investigate, but he does not see them. He is looking at the long red slit on his wrist, and the limp position his fingers have adopted.
The girl is not at the shop.
Over the course of the next week, a lot of unfamiliar people begin coming to the shop. They are very particular about the books they want, demanding them in large quantities. All of them are looking for books by Ehrlich.
Some ask for the story that she had claimed as her own. He tells them that it is out of print.
Wednesday is busy, too. The flow of customers doesn't die out until late that evening. Not until the last customer has left does he notice her sitting in the corner, reading. She's reading the story that she bought out. The book is tattered and sorry looking, like it was chewed up by a dog and then kneaded by a cat with dull claws. He watches as it falls apart in her hands. She calmly puts it away in her bag and pulls out a new copy.
He goes over to her and hands her the leather bound book with his left hand. It doesn't smell much like autumn anymore.
She looks up. "What's this?"
"The last book."
She flips through the pages. "It's hand written!"
"It's the only copy."
"It must be worth a lot!"
"It's worth nothing. I heard the author died recently, so I'll give it to you for free as a consolation gift."
"He died? How?"
"It was bound to happen, he wasn't doing too good."
"...what a shame, there was so much more he could have written...wanted to write..."
"Well, there it is, nothing to do about it now."
She studies his face closely. "I do believe that you're sorry too."
"I am sorry. I'm sorry to be up so late and to have to deal with all those other people today who were as bad as you. Out you go."
As he ushers her to the door, she glances over her shoulder at him.
"I won't come to buy books any more, then."
"...what?"
"Well, I've got all the books, and if the author is dead, then there's no use looking here for new ones."
"You may have missed a few..."
"You wouldn't know because you've never read them."
She starts off down the street. He hesitates, then calls out after her.
"Hey!"
She turns back.
"Then tell me why Ehrlich is your favorite!"
She grins, and for a moment, he is afraid she will not answer. "The endings!"
"What?"
She steps towards him again a few paces. "No matter how cliché, Ehrlich is always sure to give a happy ending."
"Shouldn't that detract from your admiration?"
"No," she sighs, still smiling. "They are always the best of endings."
And then she walks away.
He doesn't know what to say.
And then again, he is realizing that he doesn't know a great deal of things. Which book she read first, what made her want one book all to herself, why she even started reading them in the first place. Where she lived. Her name.
But he does know that she was wrong. He has made himself a very unhappy ending.
Next Wednesday, he doesn't leave the store.
He paces about and thumbs through books.
He tries to take inventory, but realizes that he cannot write with his left hand.
He eventually falls asleep at the counter.
There is a very nice smell. Warm, crisp and dry. Like Autumn. Like orange.
He sits up and sees her silhouette outlined in the golden light that streams through the windows. As she comes into focus he sees that she has a basket of food, including a steaming loaf of bread. That must account for the scent.
He sits up quickly, banging his head on the lamp that hangs over the counter, sending it swinging. It creaks.
"What are you doing here?"
"You never put up the 'closed' sign."
"I meant it. You know what I meant."
"Did I say I wouldn't be here?"
"You did."
She looks at him and blinks a few times. "I said no such thing."
"You said you wouldn't be buying books anymore."
"Oh! Well, do I look like I'm here to buy a book?"
"Why else would you be here?"
She comes behind the counter, pulling up another stool. Ignoring protest, she takes his right hand and examines the stitches on his wrist.
"I was right."
"About what?" He mumbles grumpily.
"You can't flex the fingers on your right hand. What on earth did you do?"
"It's a secret."
"I told you mine."
"I didn't say I would exchange."
She slaps his useless hand.
"Gonna be pretty hard getting stuff done without your dominant hand."
"I'll use my left."
She snorted. "You never use your left hand for anything. I bet it's bone-thin from lack of muscle."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"I'll do it."
"I don't recall offering to employ you."
"I wasn't going to take any such offer. This is a partnership."
"Who said I'd want to partner up with you? You're going to be bad for business."
"Don't try to tell me that a scruffy beard brings in more customers than my youthful glow. Besides, there are things you might need someone to write down, right? You still have a lot you wanted to say."
He couldn't look her in the eye. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"That my handwriting is better than yours. Though I still enjoyed the book."
"You little-"
"Anyways, I wanted to see if you had decided to let the beard grow."
He started eating the bread. "You make some really weird metaphors, you know that?"
"It was only a metaphor because you wanted it to be."
"You set it up like that. You knew I would take it that way."
"I was hoping. I'm glad you did. And need I remind you that you have yet to say no."
He chewed thoughtfully. "Do you think I'd look good with a beard?"
"Yeah. " she grinned.
He snorted, "Well then I don't need you to bring in business."
"Hey-"
"But I wouldn't mind the help."
(A/N; the possibility of making this a random tragedy did not fail to make itself known to me. If you wanted it that way, you could stop halfway through, and there it would be.
The first time I've really let the characters get OOC, but heck, I felt like writing some fluffy angst. Not really angst, but you know. Stuff.
To tell the truth, I was writing this all in, like, 15 minutes, and it was really good. Then my computer erased the whole thing. Needless to say, this rewrite is not as good as the original, which flowed much more naturally.)