Chapter 2 (this could take all day)

I stood in the back corner of the Harvard book store, moving my eyes quite languidly over the multi-colored spines and lettering. There is nothing in particular I am looking for, simply, enjoying the view. In my right arm, two books loosely sit. Given that I find another more intriguing, either one could be replaced, but I have to set myself to minimum, and also a maximum, of two books. Too many and I limit my chances of coming back to this beautiful book store sooner rather than later, but just one is not enough. I can practically feel the french roast from next door electrifying my weak veins, as my eyes keep focus on a pale blue moderately sized paperback. I reach up, pull down on the top of the spine and shimmy it out of it's cozy little home on the book shelf. Judging a book by it's cover, they say it's bad, but I continue day in and day out. Something on this cover doesn't jump out at me. Is it the font? the overused computer generated portrait of an allegedly calming landscape? Perhaps just the title, or something lacking in the story line. Where is the emotional turmoil and interpersonal connection with the characters? I laugh silently to myself and repeat under my breath "too picky", and return it to the aged oak shelf. I have begun to feel content with my two choices, but still meander through the other aisles, contemplating the other genre choices and reminding myself that it's time to start studying once again. I move out of the way for other shoppers, while simultaneously positioning myself in the route of another. I apologize profusely and slide my feet over once more, closer to the empty cash register adorned with overpriced candies and bookmarks. Smile, nod, say thank you. Good-bye.
It is hot today and I am in a long sleeved shirt. White, 3/4 length sleeves and jeans with the same flip flops I wear everyday. I tuck the new, crisp beautiful books into my tote and continue back toward my car, parked down past the Harvest. I pass by the door way to the MoTu office that my sister once worked in, and remember the oversized Apple computers they used to design the software. I had fantasized about being in that chair one day, but I guess somewhere along the way, it began to look uncomfortable. Harvard looks especially bright today, and I contemplated a stroll through the campus, but it seemed to be bustling with new arrivals, and unfortunately I had to get going to my second job for the remainder of the day. I felt good. I imagined that someone I knew would happen to be walking around Harvard Square at that same moment, see me and think 'My, she looks happy'. When I returned to my car, the smile seemed to melt right down my left arm as I picked the daunting parking ticket from my sleek black windshield wiper. But almost immediately after I felt nothing could ruin this moment for me. These are moments we don't see often, 'relish' I thought, in an almost cinematically gentle whisper. I pull away from the curb and head back where I came from.
I am working hard to quit smoking, and today does not help much. I have nothing in the car, and contemplate stopping by the local convenience store, but I think better of it. Stepping back down the ladder would be an almost perfect way to destroy my overwhelming elation. Cas Haley in the speakers, sunglasses and speed. I imagine myself on the beach with my new books and pair of headphones, that is where I should be driving to, but I am not. I pull into the parking lot, circle and squeeze my Scion into a nearby spot and continue on my way to another few hours of work.
There are somedays that I am thankful for my co-workers. They keep me sane, remind me what laughing right from the pit of my stomach feels like, they take me away from my computer and in front of human beings, both good and bad. But somedays, I wonder what would happen if I left. I would have free time, time to read all those books at a spritely pace. Time to spend with my sisters and friends or perhaps the brown eyed mystery man from the Cambridge church. But I remind myself of how bored I felt when I left. I get consumed in my own thoughts. I write pages and pages and think it could be a book, laugh, and then put it away to never look upon again. Drink the wine, smoke the cigarette and lay back in bed just stare out the window at the street lights behind the wilting tree branches.
How many letters have a written? I imagine how many of the same sullen morbid lines I have jotted again and again. Reminds me of the Spanish vocab drills my 8th grade teacher would ask of us, rewriting the same lines 10 times over, emblazoning them in your mind for days until they'd leak out during sleeping hours the night before the exam. But I digress. Letters, how many? and how many never mailed. Letters to my family, my friends, dead presidents, inanimate objects and customers I've dealt with through the years. Letters that proclaim so much, or absolutely nothing at all. But never read. Never even sealed in an envelope and stamped. Never even torn from the cheap Family Dollar spiral bound notebooks, piling up on the floor in the corner just beneath my bed. For now, the letters stay hidden. I plug in my shiny new fan, peel back the first pages of this new book. Before long, I am sleeping restlessly to the quiet voice of Kris Delmhorst.
To My Dearest __________,
How was your day today? I found a sun spot on my left hand this morning while applying my hand cream. It reminded me of how bright you are. How you had at one time illuminated the darkest places within me. How your smile caused such burns that I merely welcomed, throwing the SPF to the side and shutting my eyes tight against the intense heat. Even in the coldest nights in the deepest of December, never did my lips quiver, my knees quake, or my spine shake. But today I am cold, and it feels quite refreshing.

I awake to a dull slow pounding. I immediately think, in my drunken state, that it is my alarm clock, but after a few more pounds, know that this can not be right. My mind is not spinning, my head feels no pain. Perhaps the TV next door. Damned city, I can hear the conversations of the married couple three houses down. The clock reads 4:27am, perhaps the landlord, it was said that she tends to wake up early. I rise from my bed to round the doorway into the bathroom, the pounding has ceased for the moment. But before I could open the door, it has begun again. I move towards the window in the kitchen, while messily pouring a tall glass of lemonade. Doesn't sound any louder out this way. I make the 25 step trip to the front door and stumble up against the view finder. Nothing. Must be a TV somewhere in the neighborhood, sound on this street can echo like a canyon. Ignore it, back to bed.