A whisper of rain taps against the window pane, ghosting it with droplets that race down the wooden frame. The world quieted with muted tones--graceful grey skies, darkly dancing clouds, tranquil trees bending in the wind--the world is vulnerable when it rains.

The perfect day.

A hum of music pulling me from my place at the window inwards, a dimmed homely interior becomes my dance hall. 'I Only Have Eyes for You,' by the Flamingos spinning on the turntable, casting a curl onto my lips in the unmistakable shape of a smile.

'My love must be a kind of blind love.'

Blindly I followed the glint in your eyes, the passion you showed me so reluctantly at first has now spread to become my world.

"I can't see anyone but you."

You're my focus, the centerpiece of my universe, my muse, no one can hold a candle to the light you shine onto my life.

"I only have eyes for you."

Each night, I close my eyes to the thumping of your heart. The unearthly sensation of a heart beating in time with your own, for each other.

"But they all disappear from view."

Each day, I open my eyes to the sight of your full, sweet lips. I can't seem to bring myself to picture a better view, it's unfathomable that anything could be as beautiful as you.

"And I only have eyes for you."

I sway slowly as my bare feet shuffle against the wooden floor to pull the kitchen fridge open, the light illuminating how empty it is. It's either fully stocked with leftovers from take-out or completely void of anything.

"Tiff's it is," I grumble out as I close the icebox's door.

I reach into the wooden cabinet to pull down the grounds, their robust scent filling the air. The pot is filled and the grounds are poured, coffee will soon follow. He likes waking up to coffee.

I swirl around the table as the caffeinated solution drips into the pot, the warmed smell swirls into my nose and its sound mirroring the precipitation outside.

My arms are casted with goosebumps as I pull a discarded button up from the oak chair onto my stripped skin. I gingerly skip across the floorboards as the tune fades out. I cast myself down onto the bed and am met with a low groan and two strong arms pulling me against a built chest. A comforter is thrown over the both of us as the rain trickles against the window and pelts the roof.

The telephone rings and I reach out to lift it from the hook. I hold it up to my ear, "Phoebe Mae speaking." A soft nibble on my ear makes me hiccup when I speak, I swat at the side of his head and a playful whine erupts from him.

The phone continues to ring, I place it back on the receiver. The chime repeats, I take it off again.

Wandering hands, his hands, travel over the curve of my side as I lean back into him.

The ringing continues, the phone's still ringing.

The phone is ringing.

I'm pulled from my sleep to the steady dial tone of my cell phone, my eyes unable to open from fatigue. A warmth tightly wrapped against my skin, enveloping me in a sense of security. When I go to blindly tap around my phone I hear the colliding of my hand with skin that isn't mine, my eyes snap apart.

"No, no, no," I mumble out.

His arms folded around my waist, his legs tangled in mine, his head resting peacefully against my shoulder.

"No, no, no," I whisper as I scan around for my phone.

His eyes flutter innocently as dreams flash across his mind, his fingers tracing mindless circles against my top, his curls frazzled by the material of the sag bag beneath us.

"No, fuck, come on," I gasp out breathlessly as I pry my phone from between our bodies.

I lift the phone to bring it to my ear, the screen lights up to show me everything I prayed I wouldn't--the time, 5:09am, and the caller, Teddy.

I clear my throat in a futile attempt to calm my shakiness, "Morning Ted."

"Phoebe Mae Carter, where the hell are you?" Her voice thunders through the earpiece.

"I'm sor-," I start but am interrupted by a continuation, the lecture has started.

"I mean I get it, you're a big girl and everything, but no call? Seriously? I stayed up waiting for you to get home, I rest my eyes for half a second and suddenly it's five in the morning and you're still not here." Her flustered growl sends chills up my spine, stern Teddy is scary.

"Ted I'm sorry, I didn't me-"

She cuts in again, "There's no sorries here, I don't need an apology. I need an explanation, you've never done this before. Not to Bob, not to me."

I try to keep my voice quiet and movements slow as I attempt to untangle myself from Harry, "Teddy if you'd ju-"

"And I still don't know where you are. I'm not your mother, you don't need permission. I just want to make sure you're safe and-"

"Theodora," I break in.

"Phoebe."

"I'm on my way home now, I'll be there soon."

"Nick went into work early today, he took Edward with him to drop him off at Bob's. Today's my first day back at work, I'll probably be gone by the time you get here, I'm assuming you're at Sam's right?"

I pause, contemplating telling her the truth but deciding against it, "Uh yeah."

A deep whimper brushes against my ear.

"What was that?"

"N-nothing. See ya later Teddy," I yelp out as I hang up the phone and drop it into my lap.

The fingers against my hip squeeze at the flesh as the muscles tug me into his chest. I place my hands on his chest to push myself away and finally unravel myself from him.

A sigh of desperation comes from the still sleeping sun.

"Harry, wake up." I mutter over him.

He shifts in the hassock and tosses over to push his cheek against the fabric.

I tap on his shoulder, "Harry, please get up."

He doesn't budge.

I grab my phone from its resting place on the floor that it'd fallen to and throw it, hitting his collarbone, "Sunshine, wake the fuck up."

"Shit, Sunshine, that wasn't very nice," he mutters out with a scratchy morning voice.

I kick his foot, "Get up. We-I need to go."

He props himself up to sit, "Why?"

"'Why?' Harry you've got to be joking, come on." I choke out through my increasing impatience.

He runs his fingers through his curly bed head, "Do I look like a jester? No. What's got your panties in such a twist?"

"We fell asleep, here, at Darcy's. You need to leave. I need to go home."

He shakes his head as his eyes roll, "It's really not the end of the world, Sunshine."

"Yes, yes it is," I snarl out through my guilt.

"It's not, God, you're so fuckin' dramatic."

I snap, "I have a boyfriend, who's perfect. He would be crushed if he knew."

"That you fell asleep?" He barks out with vexation.

"Don't act like an ass, just go," I seethe.

He pushes himself to stand, towering over me, "Why're you so desperate for me to go? You didn't seem so disheartened by me being with you all day yesterday," he drags out the final sentiment, "When he picked his fucking cat over you."

"Harry, go," I fulminate as I point towards the front of the store.

He leans close to me, his eyes darkened by the dim lighting and the intensity of our situation, "You don't get to feel guilty."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He closes any remaining space between us and his eyes narrow into slits, "Guilt is for the regretful, the weak. He doesn't deserve to make you feel guilty."

I push my chin forward and push his shoulder, "You don't get to decide what he deserves, and you certainly don't get to tell me when I should feel guilty. Now, go."

His jaw tightens and his brows lower to hood his eyes, "I'm gone."

"Good."

"Fuck off, Sunshine," he shouts as he stomps through the store and I hear the door swing to hit the wall next to it, the bell chiming loudly.

The air grew silent as I stood there in the dissipating warmth--the warmth of his touch as I dreamt of a wonderfully peaceful morning and the warmth of his breath fanning onto my face as he barked out his harsh truths.

I huff out a rough breath and grip the hair at the front of my scalp, tightening my hands into fists.

"God damn it, Phoebe." I whisper to myself out of frustration.

I toss my phone into the canvas tote and take the key between my fingers. The tote is then tossed over my shoulder as I tug on the lamp's string to flicker the light off.

His words ring in my ear as I stifle my ragged breaths and close the door to Darcy's.

'Regretful.'

'Weak.'

The dull illumination of the sun dragging itself over the skyline lighting my walk of shame. The freezing morning only adding to the sting today has already bought. And oh, look, it's only five.

My hesitant steps lead me up my drive and onto the porch, I peak in the windows to look for Teddy, she must've left already. Thank the heavens. I can't take the disappointment in her eyes today.

I walk through the threshold and close it behind me. My tote falls to the ground off my shoulder, a thud following its drop. I sluggishly stumble down the hallway to the bathroom. My clothes are stripped from my skin and the water turned to its delightfully icy temperature.

I step into the frigid stream, it reminds me of rain. The water assaulting my skin and dousing my hair, the remnants of the previous night washed down the drain. I attempt to hold myself together while I wash my hair, cling to my sanity as the shampoo is rinsed out and the conditioner sits in my locks.

The desperate grip is lost and I drop down onto the shower bottom. I cling my knees up to my chest and throw my head down to sit atop them, steady tears mixing with the cascading mizzle.

'Weak.'

I'm not weak, I will not be weak. I spent far too long being far too weak.

'Regretful.'

I'm not regretful, I will not be regretful. I've spent far too long being far too regretful.

The stream of tears leads me down a brook back to the warmth of my slumber. The warm welcome of a steady snuggle and the safety of sheets. The fragrance of freshly brewed java jazzing my senses awake. The purr of perfect piano and the captivating crooning of the turning disc under the methodic needle. The thoughts tracking against the tissue of my cerebrum.

'He likes waking up to coffee.'

'Wandering hands, his hands.'

I wish I could go back to whoever's arms I was so eager to be enveloped in, his embrace was enchanting. Of course, a man of my dreams will never be found in this life, searching for dreamy men is a vain effort, they'll never meet the expectation.

Rose-tinted lenses, the literary view of people, has set me up to fail. No man will ever be as chivalrous as the knights of the great birds. Women project their lost desires into their work, their caricatures are undeniably perfect. No earthly man will swallow you in sheets on rainy days, or dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator light, or read your favorite books just to be able to appreciate them as you do. Those damn rose-tinted lenses, my flawed view of people, will set me up to fail.

I eventually escape the pelting shower stream and throw on clothes. A tattered GAP hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and black high tops--good enough. My wet hair is tousled into a bun at the nape of my neck.

My phone lights up with a message from Teddy.

'Rough morning for everyone, sorry for parenting. Hope it all gets better from here. Kisses.'

My fingers tap the screen, 'Kisses.'

I toss it back into my tote and drag myself down to Darcy's. Hopefully I can get Dee to get dinner with me, I could use her company. She's wise while still being kind, which is a rare quality. I've found that while wiseness is treasured just as equally as kindness, it tends to be accepted without the latter. Wise words without kindness behind them are no more of a guide than a map without a legend.

'Tiff's it is.'

I can't seem to get the dream to escape my mind, I don't remember ever seeing the man's face and the apartment seemed oddly familiar. It was small and all the furnishings were old, a beaten velvet couch and antique-worthy television, and a record player right next to it. It felt as if the answer was being shouted at me, that it was so obviously something I should recall, and yet I was completely oblivious.

The freezing air bites at my hands and face, my ears reddening under my hooded head. The stroll to work was not one of leisurely views of the scenery but rather a kaleidoscope of memories.

The porch, the vinyl.

The streets, the conversing.

The square, the festival.

The bench, the honesty.

The diner, the feast.

The recordstore, the apartment.

The bookstore, the entanglement.

I tug the door open to a gust of tepid air. The scent of old books and cheap scented spray overwhelming my nose. My feet take me through it and I am immediately met with Dee, a weary look on her face.

I give her a confused glance, "Hey Dee, how's it goin'?"

"I'm getting too old," she mutters out, "I left the door unlocked last night."

I bite on my bottom lip out of guilt, I can't let her take the fall for my mistake. "I came in here early this morning, looking for my Dickinson book. I must've forgotten to lock up behind me, I'm so sorry, Dee."

"But it was locked when you got here?" She questions.

I nod, "It was."

She lets out a relieved sigh, "I guess this old gal isn't too old just yet."

"Sorry again, Dee." I gush out.

She shakes her hand and swings a frail hand at me, "Oh sweetheart, it's fine."

I nod gratefully and step behind the desk to find an overflowing box of returns. I heave the container up onto the wooden table top and start shuffling through the stack and logging the returns into the system. As always, they're mainly praises to the authors and recommendations to put them in the front of the store. Each cover is the sight of a new sticky note that preaches the moral message of the composition or the plot point that hooked the reader.

My logging is interrupted by the chime of the bell, two kids come in hand-in-hand. It's the boy and the girl I've so shamelessly studied each time I've seen them. He pulls her to their home of an aisle and immediately they flop down onto the floor with a book each.

He sits leaning against the shelf as she rests her head against his outstretched leg, each reading, each in their own little world. Quiet exchanges follow, secret soliloquies. He'd lean down close to her face just to mumble a quick word before returning to his page, her focus rarely broken except to let a snicker leave her lips at his words.

He reaches out his hand and she intertwines her own fingers with his, placing the entangled hands on her chest. He smiles brightly as he reads, glancing back at their laced hands before attempting to focus again.

They spent all day here--switching from book to book, quiet to bursts of laughter, closely sat to spread apart. They always managed to find their way back to that first spot, their hands resting together on her chest as she lay against his leg.

As I replace books on their shelves in the next aisle over I hear their nearly volumeless mumblings.

"Does Jo love Laurie?" The boy asks.

The girl giggles, "You'll have to read the book and find out."

"But you always pick the sad books," he groans.

She laughs louder, "And you always enjoy them."

"Because you pick them."

I keep putting away books and their muffled voices dissolve into silence as I head to the back of the store. The bell chimes at the front, signaling another customer has arrived.

I catch a glimpse of the abandoned collection of poems resting in the bean bag chair and pick it up to place it in the crate. I carry it back to the poetry section and slide it between its companions.

If only love was as simple as enjoying the same books. If it was that simple though, there would be no books to read. Literature thrives off of the complexities of the human experience.

The complexities that leave us stronger, stronger and somehow so much weaker. If what I've been through made me stronger, I'm only just as weak as I am strong.

I carry the now empty crate to behind the desk and slump down into the seat. I spin a pen on the desk until Darcy drops a book I recognize immediately onto the top.

"Again?" I gripe out as I drag my hands down my face.

She lets out a short, stifled cackle, "Again."

I look down at the cover to find it absent of a post-it defining the terms of its return, Louis' face is not obstructed by any unconstructive criticism or blatant disapproval. I look up at Darcy, "No note?"

"Try inside the cover," she suggests as she steps away towards the children's section where her usual group of rascals await.

They sit patiently with fidgety legs and juice boxes in hand. They all cheer at the reappearance of Dee and begin asking for her to read, yelling out titles of books as she rests in the chair. She picks up the top book from the stack and the group falls silent, eager to hear.

I slip my thumb under the front cover and pull it back, sure enough, a pale yellow sticky note rests inside. His infamously illegible handwriting scribbled across it, a message followed by a single initial, H.

'Guilty as charged, this book is just as bad as I remembered, my mistake. -H.'

'My mistake,' what the hell is that supposed to mean. He is a piece of work that one.

I crumple up the note and toss it into the trashcan below the dark oak top. I place the book in the crate and find Darcy's stationary to add a tally to the total, thirteen times. Thirteen times he has taken out this god forsaken book. I add a note below it that reads, 'We should really start charging him for this.'

I shake my head at the book as it sits in the blue container and go back to spinning the pen on the desk. God, he's a pain.