False Start

The morning sun cast peach shadows upon the bumpy, magnolia walls of her room. It was small, and square, and although plain the room did not lack character. With four, mahogany beams running up the main wall, creating the perfect spot for a heavy, oak bed to slot into. Plump cotton candy coloured pillows, and a floral duvet, with a brown, leather journal poking out from underneath the sheets. The same journal she all too often fell asleep on whilst jotting down the events of the day.

It was cold. Really cold. So she pulled a navy hoodie over her head and let in envelope her in a hug of warmth. Her bare feet were ice, plodding along the wooden floor and making the boards squeak every so often. The windows to her bedroom, that sat above above her beloved bookshop, were paper thin and did nothing to keep the cold of autumn out; wheezing with every sudden breeze. She used the light wood skirting to boost herself up, and she sat on the roomy, chipping windowsill, with the leather journal clutched under her arm, and a blue pen behind her ear. Pressing the balls of her feet to the opposite wall, she steadied herself. With the small journal resting upon her knees, she opened it, and refreshed her mind of the word's she'd scribbled the night before.

Silent, mystery man. Placed dominantly in the doorway, blocking the entrance - blocking the exit. I could not escape from any interaction with you. The smell of the rain, the warmth of the shop, the image of you; it's overwhelming. You touched me without laying a finger on me, the dark skin under your eyes, oceans that held more words than I'll ever hear escape from your thin, inviting lips. I miss you. Somehow?

"How ridiculous." Caitlin spoke quietly to herself, and instantly tore the page from the book, launching it across the room. It was quite clearly aimed for the trash can, but bounced from the rim and rolled under her desk.

She sighed heavily, and peered down at the dampened streets, her breath lightly fogging the window. It was only an hour or so longer until she had to open the shop, but like every morning, she watched the same people, the same routine, trailing below her window. A young girl with pigtails and a face full of freckles - surprisingly noticeable considering the distance - pulled on her evidently tired, father's hand, in the direction of the school that was located to the left and at the very end of the long street. An elderly man sat upon a bench, the wind blowing crisp, golden leaves beside his suede shoes, that same wind making it difficult for him to read the daily news paper, just like he did every other day.

Her window whistled again.

Caitlin enjoyed watching the routine of others. Faces that passed below her window every weekday, a thousand stories she didn't know. Colours, freckles, suits, broken umbrellas, splashing feet, and the exchangement of flowers. The street she lived on was all but a novel brought to life, similar to the ones she created in her mind as she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

Through a grey ocean of people, blue waves crashed, and overtook everything that had previously calmed her. Him. Standing outside the coffee shop she usually grabbed lunch from, only three doors across from her little, inherited shop. She lurched closer, sure for a moment that her eyes were deceiving her, bumping her nose on the window in the process. She winced, but ignored the throbbing pain now emanating from her nose, and leaned closer, watching as he entered the coffee shop.

For a moment, she was sure she had imagined him. She shook her head, stretched her arms above her head and let out an unladylike yawn.

She dropped her arms and grumbled beneath her breath. "Well, Caitlin, another day in paradise."

Amongst the chaos of traffic piling the streets in the lunch hour, Gibbs found himself standing across the street from the little book shop around the corner, the homely glow somewhat radiating warmth through the dull, miserable streets - it taunted him toward it.

Upon approaching, he kept a safe distance and stood across the street, overlooking the road and into the large window of the store.

Unsure of what it was, why he was there, standing in the cold, in front of the metal sign that read 'The Little Bookstore', for no reason other than because if felt right. He drunk in his surroundings, a little girl barged passed him, a ball of energy dragging along her father and humming something that sounded similar to a nursery rhyme, or the theme to some bad cartoon. All that was occurring in his peripheral vision, and still his eyes stayed focused and unblinking, glued to the chipped paint of the door, and how it mocked him as he feared to take a step closer.

He swallowed, turned 180 degrees and with clammy hands, twisted the handle to an unfamiliar coffee shop. He grumbled his order to the wide-smiling, sweet-sounding high school student, and accepted it with a gruff "thanks." He slipped into a wooden seat in front of the window, one that creaked every time he moved. The cup contained no milk, no sugar, just boiling water and coffee beans yet still, somehow, the young girl had managed to make the beverage weak. Nevertheless, he sipped on it, and crinkled his nose every time he did.

For the most part of twenty-something minutes, his sights bore down to the wear and tear of the square, light oak table; lost in his thoughts. That was, until, he heard the distinctive chime of the door from across the cobblestone road. It became muffled through the glass, distance, and gravelled voices, but the vivid, polaroid type images flickered in his mind, of her annoyingly over-sized glasses, and soft, sunshine eyes.

There she was, floating across the amber-lit store, plonking a brown, leather bag onto the mahogany counter, and began her day sorting through a pile of books a generous, sweet old man had donated the previous morning. Her frizzy curls were half pulled into a ponytail that sat on the top of her head and flopped from side to side with every slight movement, the other half framing the ivory skin on her face, making her rosy cheeks stand out just that bit more.

He pondered the mystery girl with the large glasses and the soft voice for a while, watching what was, from the effortless way she was moving, he concluded to be her daily routine. Did she wake with a mug of creamy coffee? Or, perhaps, a cup of steaming tea? Of course, there was the possibility that she simply had nothing at all, and he was just building her up with ideas, and fabricated characteristics, and routines just like the ones in the books she was sorting.

Did she wake up enveloped in blankets, or against a warm chest? He stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. How ridiculous. The green eyed monster boiled his blood for a woman he barely knew. Leroy Jethro Gibbs does not experience jealousy - nor does he experience any other common, human emotion, since his heart and soul are so reserved.

The coffee was as cold as his fingertips now, and with the cup still almost half full, he left a couple of dollars on the table for the cheery, high-schooler, and ventured out into the crisp, early October air.

Stepping out onto the crunchy leaves, his hair blew in a sudden gust of wind and he rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them. The store with the laughable girl and sweet glasses - or was it the sweet girl with the laughable glasses? - He was unsure. He had processed it over and over that they now merged into one bizarre, delightful, mystery woman, whom of which he was equally terrified and awed by.

One step, and another, and he had dodged the racing bicycles, and speed walking suits and barking dogs, and mini tornadoes of leaves. He stood firm, his feet cemented to the ground, and reached out his most dominant hand in search for the handle on the door. His eyes flickered up, and he caught her caramel gaze through the slightly fogged window, and froze; the only movement being the tremor of his hand.

Alphabetically sorting books wasn't the most desired of all jobs, but it came with the package and so she placed them in their designated by name slots, occasionally becoming distracted, and reading the blurbs, if a certain cover caught her eye. This time, it was a name: Promised Land. She ran her eyes over the porcelain, hard-back cover, and opened the book to the first page that held a short, handwritten note from the author.

'I place a rose on top the leaves in which lays my hope. My fingers trace across your name. I will myself to cope. With sunshine in your eyes, you warmed my icy shell. You made me lighter than a feather, now I'm heavier than hell. - '

Sensing a presence, she waited for the chime of the bell, but it never came. When she lifted her head her cheeks rose instantly and her eyes locked with those same, ocean waves she had momentarily swam in the previous night.

There stood the silent, mystery man once again casting a shadow across the floor of her store, this time, facing toward it, with an outstretched hand; expressionless.

She flashed him a small smile, wisps of hair accenting her face, ones he couldn't have possibly noticed whilst sipping his weak coffee from a safe distance. Distance, he concluded, was a blessing and a curse. He dropped his hand, and offered her a pathetic attempt at a smile, before turning on his heels and racing away.

Her smile faded gradually, and she stood with wide eyes, staring into space. He was gone. Not just gone, but gone again. She frowned, gulped, and with a slightly faster heart rate, lowered her head back into the book to continue reading.

Signed, '- Until we meet again, my love.'