“Wake up, Ella.”
A rolled up ball of paper taps Ella on the forehead right between her eyes and she jolts awake with a startle. She’s at work, Canterbury’s Second Hand Books in Marylebone, London. It’s a small store covered wall to wall in wooden shelves filled to the brim with seemingly unorganised books. Even the large desk Ella had been dozing at has shelves on each side packed with collections. In front of her, Amita Rajan, having just flicked the paper that woke her up, stands with a heavily ringed hand placed indignantly on one hip, her index finger tapping impatiently. She’s wearing her favourite jacket this morning, a drab green German army jacket she’d screen printed Joy Division artwork onto the back of. Today, she has it tied in a tight knot at her waist. As always, she wore an abundance of jewelry on both hands and wrists, much of it sourced from thrift shops, some of it, like her safety pin bracelet, she made herself. As usual, she’s wearing black lipstick and had outlined her eyes in pointed matching wings, and today has all of her wavy black hair hanging down over the left side of her face. The look shows off her high, shaved undercut on the other side.
”Is this what I pay you for?” She says, her other hand palm out in front of her. “To drool all over my table?
”Ah, sorry Amita,” says Ella, still in a daze. “I must have dozed off.”
Bright morning sunlight streams in through the store window, catching on the steam swirling up out of two coffee cups that Amita must have brought in with her.
”Oh, I can see that,” she says. “You’re the only twenty-year-old I know who crashes at nine-thirty in the morning.”
”Here,” she says, picking up the cups and handing one to Ella, “Looks like you need this more than usual. That must be two hundred quid you owe me by now.”
Ella takes the coffee gladly, and Amita sits in the desk in front of her.
“You alright, kid?” She asks after a sip. “You look… vexed.”
”I’m fine,” says Ella, staing blankly at the steam rising out of her own cup. “It’s just these dreams-“
”Ooo,” says Amita, sitting upright at the word ‘dreams’, “Naughty ones, I hope. Tell me everything.”
”No, nothing like that,” says Ella blushing, “Well, maybe a few… No, it’s… forget it.”
Amita purses her lips.
“Uh-uh. You don’t get to sleep on my dime without paying for it. Come on. Spill it.”
Ella sinks her face into her hands before glancing up at her boss.
”But it’s so stupid. You’re going to think I’ve lost my mind. I keep dreaming of this… guy. It’s been going on for months. Every night. He’s been teaching me these… things. I know it sounds nuts. And just now-“
She pauses, the apprehension on her face at a peak. After an uncomfortably long pause and a deep breath, finally she breaks the silence.
”Have you ever dreamt in another language?”
Amita’s expression, which had a first appeared playful, begins to morph into something more resembling concern.
”What language?”
”French,” says Ella peering up at her through the strands of hair still hanging down over her face, like a curtain she’s trying to hide behind.
All of Amita’s remaining cheer disappears in an instance, and she turns her head to look away at a pile of books built up on the floor next to the shelf beside them. Ella looks up at her like a school child might at a teacher after they’d been caught doing something wrong.
”I see,” says Amita curtly, “Can’t say I have. Go on, off to work, ya layabout. Those books aren’t going to sort themselves.
Ella hurries off to her work, opting to start on the pile as far from Amita as the small space allowed. She can’t see it with her focus on the books in front of her, but Amita stares at her from behind her hair, which cascades in waves down one side of her face. Her dark eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, the worry in her expression unmistakable.
***
It's early evening in Marylebone, London. Canterbury's Second Hand Books is still open, and its light spills out on the street. A tall man in a dark coat and red scarf walks towards it, blowing hot air into his cupped hands for warmth.
"Hey!" He yells as he swings into the doorway. "Where's my mochaccino queen?"
Amita jumps from her chair at the front desk and embraces her boyfriend, James. He dips her down across her knee, and makes an over-the-top kissing sound loud enough for Ella to hear all the way on the other side of the store. From behind the shelf she's kneeling in front of, she hears Amita retake her seat, and pull her laptop across the desk.
"Hey there, miss," says James in his now familiar deep voice. "Word is the old lady caught you havin' a kip this morning."
James Morrow peers down at her, half concealed behind her bookshelf, his heavy lobe rings dangling as he tilts his head to the side. Ella had gotten used to his thick Scottish accent by now, but his unusual and eclectic arrangement of jewellery, combined with his perfectly quaffed, jet black hair and beard, and hand and neck tattoos still grabbed her eyes as much as they had the first time she'd met him, which was well over a year ago by now.
"What is it?" He says wryly, "You stay up all night reading Milton again?"
"Something like that," she replies, still arranged the stack of books in her hand.
"I don't kids these days," he says, snatching one from her, and holding it up in of him, letting it fall open sideways, and inspecting it as though he'd never seen one before. "Heads buried in these things all night long."
"Crap!" Interjects Amita from her desk. "That reminds me. I need you to close up tonight, Ella. We're meeting up with friends from out of town."
She snaps her laptop shut and jumps to her feet, grabbing her jacket and pulling it on in one fluid movement.
"Actually," says Ella, "I was hoping to-"
The words trail off, her shoulders slump, and her face turns down to the floor.
"Sure," she says, "No problem."
"Awesome!" Chirps Amita, turning her attention to James.
"We should get moving," she says, "and call me old lady again, and I'll jam that skull ring where the sun don't shine."
James shoot Ella a cheeky grin, just as Amita swings around behind the bookshelf in front of her.
"You should meet up with us later," she says tentatively.
"Aye!" shouts James in agreement, "There's be some spritely young lads there. Or lasses, if that's your fill.
Amita elbows him in the stomach.
"What?" He protests, "How would I know?"
"Thanks," says Ella with a smile, "But I can't. I really shoudln't leave Arthur alone that long. He's not himself lately."
"Bring him with!" Exclaimed James, clasping a bicep with his hand and shooting his other up in a clenched fist. "Get some blood pumping through those veins again."
Amita snatches him by the shoulder and pulls hard.
"Suit yourself," she says, dragging him toward the door. "You got my number if you change your mind!"
***
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