I snuck into a luckily empty house, changing out of stiffened rain soaked clothes. I put up half of my hair and brushed my teeth. A fresh start, a new day. My body adorned with white jeans and a green and white sweater. As the soft cloth covers my torso, I can't help but think of his hands dancing circles around my abdomen, spurring butterflies' wings to swat at the lining in my stomach and glide up to fly circles around my temporal lobe.

Shoes slipped on at the door and tote strung over my shoulder as I swing it open to be greeted with a dimpled smile and crinkled eyes. A arm wrapped around my shoulder as I close the door behind me.

"I can't believe you've never heard The Zombies," he groans out as our shoes splash the puddles of residual rain.

"Sing a line," I shrug, "Maybe I do know."

"Bloody embarrassing, I can't keep you around, uncultured, Sunshine."

I purse my lips in thought, "Era?"

"'60s," He's quick to respond.

"Top song?"

"She's Not There."

"Wait," I nearly shout, "Is that the one that goes, 'Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked. The way she'd act and the colour of her hair.'"

"Yes," he strains out in relief. He tightens his grip on my shoulder, looking down on me, "I guess you can stay for a while."

I snicker and place my hand on his chest, dramatically drawing out, "What ever would I have done if you'd sent me away?"

"Probably fall over and die." He mocks my theatrical tone.

"Surely." I nod as a giggle passes through my teeth.

We walk in comfortable silence for a while--the splash of soles against soaked soil, the hum of cars, the whistle of the breeze. I noticed something as we neared our destination, each time a car drove past on our side of the road, Harry's body would stiffen and his arm would tighten around my shoulder. The screech of brakes sent a noticeable shiver down his spine, the obnoxious start up of a sports car's engine forced an audible gulp. I'd remember Teddy telling me that his parents had passed in a car accident, an aversion to cars is sure to stem from that kind of devastation.

I nudge him, "Anymore obligatory artists for me?"

The corners of his lips tug upwards, "Definitely. I know you already know the croons, I've heard you sing Joel, I've talked about rockers--hope you were payin' attention. Zombies have been briefly covered, I'd say anyone from the sixties is fair game, seventies is a mu-"

A horn blares in the distance and Harry stops dead. I look up to see his pale face and frantic expression, his arm drops from my shoulder and he walks ahead of me to a trash can. His hunched posture is enough for me to turn away, thanks Eddie--that baby has given me the weakest stomach.

An eruption of coughs and gags sound off behind me like cannon fire, groaned out breaths distinguish the end of a brutal battle with digestive failure. Spattering of boots against the sidewalk and a hand squeezing my shoulder establish the return of a deserter.

"Too many pancakes?" I ask, knowing the most likely source of upheaval.

He shakes his head, "Something like that."

The remainder of our journey is filled with musicians' names and authors' greatest works. Emma, Franny and Zooey, The Seeds, Jefferson Airplane, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, The Temptations, The Kinks. Each inquiry an insight to personal preference, a reflection of personal perceptions.

Our stint of secluded sanctitude interrupted by the tugging of the door handle of Darcy's and a kiss pressed to my temple.

There seems to be a whole lot of endearment underneath all of that indifference. It was probably always there, looking back on it now, the sweetness behind the sour, it was probably always there. An endearment for music, for literature, for stolen smooches, for late night dances. Underneath all of that indifference there seems to be a whole lot of endearment.

I step through the door and immediately go behind the desk, discarding my tote and placing my notebook on the counter. It's worn cover a source of pride, a sign of intuition, a holder of truths and of lies--jumbled up and disguised as one another.

I dip below the desktop to find the container of returns to be nearly empty, only a few books to be sent back to their homes on the shelves. No Armstrong, no sloppy note of mockery or apology--boring day.

My attention is cast to the door when the bell chimes and like a phantom, he walks in. His tall and muscular frame complimented by a simple white tee shirt and black jeans. The shaggy brown curls that rested on his head bounced slightly as he walked, a wink sent my way through a smirk, my teeth digging into my bottom lip. Once he disappeared out of my line of sight, I went back to the returns.

Removing each bland note and crumpling it into a minesquele ball before chucking it into the garbage, I log the returns. I take the small stack around the shop, leaving each book where it was meant to be. Once my duty was fulfilled, I slipped into the music aisle.

I tap him on the shoulder, "What kind of book are you looking for? If you like music I'd suggest a music history book maybe, rather than a biography. They usually go into more detail about different genres and periods of music."

He looks over his shoulder and chuckles, "Yeah I know that, I'm not bloody thick."

"Have you found what you're looking for yet?" I ask, he's been scanning the same spot on the same shelf continuously, he's looking for the biography.

I hid it on the top of the shelf after the last time he'd returned it and he hasn't taken it out since.

"I haven't actually, Sunshine, are you hiding my book from me?" He jokingly chastices.

"Top shelf on the left," I say as I run my fingertips across his taut shoulder blades, punctuating my statement with a brush of my lips against the cotton. I add emphasis to the sway of my hips as I walk away, wiggling my fingers as I disappear behind the shelves.

I look to Dee as she sits talking to an older woman, her friend from school, Edith. They're sitting on two old chairs, chairs that Darcy and Eddie would sit on everyday. Darcy runs her fingers across the stained velvet chair arm with an expression that conveys her steadfast devotion to him. Devotion that transcends the natural bond of domestication.

"I've just been very tired lately, missing Eddie." She admits, her sight set on her twiddling fingers.

Edit places her hand atop Darcy's, squeezing it kindly as a gesture of support. "You're absolute earnesty, you work so hard, give yourself a break."

"It's not hard work, I love it so dearly." She shakes her head and takes Edith's hand between her two, "A friend like you, that's all I need." She looks over to my obvious eavesdropping, "A family like the one I've found, that's all I need."

Edith looks over at me as well, "Phoebe Mae, when are you going to let this old girl retire?" Her face a devastating look of jest with an underlying sincerity.

"When she let's me," I laugh back, "She barely trusts me to handle returns, let alone trust me enough to retire."

A scoff comes from Darcy, "I would never trap Phoebe here, her work is a lifestyle she deserves to live off of, not working at a mom-n-pop shop."

"That's right," Edith gasps, "How's your writing going dear? Any new developments?"

Luckily, I have yet to have to face Sam, it's Thursday--I have a few days until I have to hold back glances, keep giggles to myself, hide questions, I have a few days until I have to pretend I don't care. My heart aches not for a lost partner but a lost friend, sure he said he'd stick around but he's still been sent away. He no longer holds an obligation to my emotions, to my opinions, to my world. He is no longer tied to my life.

"I won a writing contest a short while ago, just trying to keep my professor invested in my work now." I start to head behind the desk, "Talk to you ladies later."

"Bye, sweets." Edith rings out.

I sit down on the harsh wood chair, tugging Dickinson from her home under the desk, flipping through moralities and truths, searching for a lesser read poem. My mission is unachievable--each stanza memorized and locked away in my heart, each line pumped through chambers, each syllable spoken through my body by arteries, each letter returned back to my heart through veins.

My body, a castle of literature--Dickinson the foundation, Austen the walls, Bronte the roof above, Shakespear the turrets, Salinger a guarding gargoyle. Each has their role, their purpose in my life, they're the basis of reflection, the inspiration of perceptions.

Writing my sanctuary and my dungen--my biggest mistakes hidden in the pages of smudged ink, my proudest observations masked by a worn cover--a physical copy of my mind.

A good writer reflects, and I am a writer. My perceptions built off of reflections--reflections of my own and reflections of influences. I am a writer, a good writer reflects.

"Aren't you going to help me?" A low accent pulls my attention from my wandering mind.

I look up to see a stack of books, the top being the Armstrong biography. "Haven't you got better things to read? Jane Eyre perhaps?"

"Aren't employees supposed to be nice, Sunshine?" He scolds teasingly.

I let a snicker slip through my lips, "I never said I was nice."

"I guess then, I'd like to return all of these books, where are the post-its?" He asks with raised brows and a playful smile.

I shake my head as a light laugh blows through my nose, "You can't return books you haven't even checked out."

"Just hand over the post-its, Scrooge."

I yank the drawer open to display a pad of yellow sticky notes amongst the debris that's been steadily tossed in over the years. I pull the stack from its home and place it on the desktop along with a pen, "Bah humbug."

He scoops up the pen and pad, juggling the stack of books in his arms as he saunters over to a chair, dropping the stack onto the ground and picking up the first one he can reach. Skimming the pages before picking up the quill and papyrus to incite a baseless review.

I sat their studying him--how his curls fell into his eyes, his paceless scribbling, his contentment with his own writings shown through stifled snickers and poorly held back smirks, how his muscles contracted with each flick of the ballpoint pen, his hunched posture to swear his reports to secrecy.

Each book cover elicits another confidential chuckle and restricted review. Handwriting gets sloppier, evident from the increasing size of his half cursive all capital font and the multiplying of crumpled notes piling up.

Quick glances between notes and my eyes, narrowed glares that convey manufactured mistrust. A bottom lip taken in between two front teeth to guise a grin reveals seductive satisfaction.

His stack is gathered up in his hands, his pile of rejected messages abandoned at the feet of the chair. The pen and slim pad of paper remain on the small table beside the furnished fabric. His feet carry him back to me with steady strides that force creaks from the floor.

Deviousness devouring the dimples carved into stone cheeks, he drops the stack to spread across the desktop."See ya 'round, Sunshine."

"Ha-"

"See ya 'round."

I groan at the sizable display of dejected publications, muttering out curses that are censored by the chiming of the bell above the door, he's off.

I pick up the first book and pull open the front cover to find various scratchings of sensual substance drawn out in awkward penmanship. I slap the book closed over my chest, my hands engulfing the novel in an attempt to hide the carnal cravings from creeping counterspies.

I slowly peel back the front barrier of the pages to reveal the messages again.

'How does Sunshine taste?'

'Is she a devil in the sheets?'

'Sticky Sunshine all over my fingers.'

I stare dumbfounded at the appetitive ramblings before quickly crumpling them up and tossing them into the trash. I set the book aside and move onto the next.

'Hard candy for Sunshine.'

'Summer sweetness, can I have a lick?"

'Dream of how you taste.'

I continue through various books stuffed to the edges with excitingly explicit enigmas of enamoration until I'm down to the final one. The biography. It contains a single yellow post-it, a message written with two sunshines drawn side by side.

'Show me some Sunshine.'

I shake my head and go to crumple up the note, I begin to collapse the paper in the palm of my hand but stop. I straighten it out on the desk and open the cover of my notebook. It is nestled inside the warped wrapping and tucked inside my mind.

"Lots of books he returned today." Dee speaks up, making me jump.

I nod in agreement, "And didn't like any of them. What's new?" I fib. My eyes dart over to the two chairs that had since been evacuated. "Where'd Edith go?"

Darcy laughs fraily, "She left a while ago, so busy staring at customers you didn't even notice."

I go to defend myself but nothing comes out, I've got no explanation.

"I was a little surprised you'd come to work today, Teddy told me about Sam. I was prepared to hold down the fort all on my own," her kind voice displays sweet sympathy and slight stabs.

"Of course she did. I'm alright."

"I'd be alright too if mancandy like him was leaving notes in books for me." Darcy states through a shit-eating grin.

My jaw falls open and I just stare.

"I saw him penciling away for nearly half an hour, his smugness gave it all away," She laughs, "Besides, Eddie used to do the same thing."

My nails dig into my cuticles, "I-well the thing is-he-and then-"

"Oh hush," she scolds, "Come sit down with me."

We find our way over to the chairs that were formerly occupied by Edith and herself, and before that Eddie and herself. She takes my hand between her wrinkled own and shakes it gingerly, her face full of reminiscence and contentment.

"Eddie used to leave notes in book returns all of the time. Suggestions for dinner, places to travel to, anything he thought I should hear, it all went down on post-its. When his memory started to go, more and more silliness began going down on those damned sticky notes." She started, her expression somberly poised. "Any disagreement we had, I could always count on a joke the next day to appear on those scraps of paper. He made every serious situation seem silly, a punchile to his stand-up sticky note joke."

I wasn't sure what had provoked this sentiment, if it was a story that would lead to an insightful message or if she simply needed a period of reflection upon Eddie. She is devoted to keeping his memory alive, keeping his spirit around. Devotion runs through her blood, Eddie's spirit lives in her soul.

"After our accident, I shut myself in for a while. I hardly helped in the store and I was a moping mess. I didn't have heart to look at him, he'd always wanted children, it'd been something we'd always planned on. I couldn't bear to even catch a glimpse of disappointment on his face, it was never there, but nonetheless. He knew and I knew that something horrible had happened, that we were changed because of it, but I didn't want to drag him down." Her voice croaks as she holds back emotion. "Once I finally got the strength to sit behind that desk, a note was the first thing I found in the return box. Know what it said?"

I shake my head, "What?" She'd told me so many stories of Eddie, his kind gestures and his childlike behavior, but never of the notes or the serious, heartbreaking moments of their commitment.

"Want eggs for dinner. Yours scrambled?" She says through a bittersweet cackle.

I can't help the snort that rips through my nose, a hearty laugh tearing through my throat and amplifying through my mouth, "No, shit? He said that?"

"He did," she says through flattering laughter, "And he made that joke at least three more times that day." She wipes the tears that had fallen from her eyes out of chortling, "He made me promise not to cry over scrambled eggs. It was his gift, to find humour in the horrific. Every issue we faced, he held a torch out to find the joy."

I pause, staring at Dee, admiring her grace. She has been through so much and yet uses her tribulations as stepping stones to guide others across vast oceans of tears, her message snuck in along doltish retellings. Hold the torch, find the joy, tell the story, be the light.

My mind shines a spotlight on Harry, a match sparked in the dark. Tortured soul, endearment hidden under indifference. He needs a torch, someone to guide him through the dark, to help him find the joy. The spotlight shifts to me, a candle waiting to be lit. Endearment hidden under indifference, tortured soul. I need a match, someone to spark the flame to lighten a dark dungeon, to help me find the joy.

My free hand reaches up for the ends of my hair, swirling it around my index finger. The helpless screams could all be silenced, if I had a match. The fear of hands tugging at my roots could be dismantled, if the match held flame. The grief of lost innocence could be accepted, if wind won't douse the spark. My hand falls from my hair back down to my lap, the wind's too strong, the liability of a lost flame too costly. The match will wait in its box, until the wind dies down.

A match lit prematurely will surely be devastating, left to fizzle out or burn down cities.

I stand from the chair, "Thank you, Dee." My hands fall from her's and I'm sent stumbling over to the desk, I need to write something down.

My hands fumble around the desktop to grab my notebook, fingers blindly flipping through pages as I trip over to the chair where the pen had been left on the side table. My shoes squeak under the pressure of my tensed muscles and old wooden boards. I flop down into the chair and pick up the pen, twirling it between my fingers as I look for an open space in my script to be penciled in.

My eyes flash around the page, a page drowning in self-deprecation, a page drowning in honesty. The harsh words cut like knives through my chest, reopening unhealed wounds forced closed with tape and glue, praying the temporary bandage would cover the bullet wounds.

'Tight shackles burn bruises into wrists,

Red rings of shame.

Ginger chains whip circles around,

Amber waves of denial.

Drowsy eyes darkened by branding,

Purple rings of guilt.

Muffled cries silenced by strong palms,

Battlecries of failure.'

"You know you want it."

"Good girls don't put up a fight."

"Pretty hair, pretty pussy."

"You were asking for it."

"Little whore, stop fighting."

The flashes of his dark eyes, rage filled glares, and strong hands, his sweaty palms hush my screams and strong fists knocking my eye sockets, and ruthless invasion--his hands, his mouth, his body.

My breathing shallows, my hands shake, my arms numb--my mind racing with the same words begged through my lips that night, "Please, stop," and, "That hurts," and, "Please don't touch me."

I mutter the words out in breathless whispers, "That hurts."

Another weak inhale, "Stop, please stop."

"Please, don't touch me." A fragile exhale.

I need a match.

Find the joy.