There is so much color in the world. Living surrounded by second hand, I notice that the patina of age filters some of this color, creates washes and richness from it. This removes some of that feeling of chaos that can freeze me. Sometimes I feel myself ticking in the dust.

I spent over an hour today rearranging the pulp novel shelf in the book room. First I alphabetized, then even replaced the tape and marker labels I’d put up the previous time I decided that the shelf needed a makeover. After that, I sat across from it, squinting at my handiwork and sipping on my third coffee of the morning.

Sometimes I just need to be away from natural light for a while. Anthony frowns when I pull the blinds out front too early.

The book room is just what it sounds like it might be. It is windowless and filled with second hand books. When Anthony actually acknowledged that I was working for him, there was only a stepstool and an overhead light to cozy the place up. Since then, I have added the two saggy chairs that were left over when I moved out of the place on Merry. I have papered an end table with a falling apart copy of Jurassic Park, and smile a little every time someone snickers at the bad crafty of it.

“Just stop it,” Ben said, having locked the store for lunch and taken a seat in the other saggy chair.  “If you arrange it any more it’s going to look more deliberate than you want it to look.”

“You know, I’m thinking about slip covering these chairs.”

“You’ll get over that soon enough.”

I chewed the big mouthful of pasta salad I’d just forked in and tried to think of something clever to say to that. I wanted the room to feel comfier. I knew that I needed to stop myself before I dragged in a futon and set out to learn the fine art of bead curtain construction. Had I seen an ottoman in the spare furniture storage room?

“Or maybe lamps. Actually, I think it’s the lampshades that would make it just right.”

That worked. It brought the grin I was looking for. Sue me. Redheads have my number, even when they’re interfering with my nervous guilt parties. Anyway, he did bring me lunch.

“Seriously, Mona, do you really want people staying in here longer than they do already?” He waved his fork at me. “I usually close it off when I’m working by myself. Makes me nervous enough as it is without any of your candles in Chianti bottles.”

“You know, that’s a pretty good idea. The candle, thing, I mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anyway, I’m more likely to lock the front door and hide in here myself. And I don’t mind so much if there are people back here. Not like I don’t know what they’re doing. Hell, you’re on speaking terms with every rat and bug in the walls.”

“Someone’s gotta keep them in line.”

“Exactly, so you know what’s going on in here, no problem.”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that people who hide in the book room creep me out a bit.” 

“Like me?”

“Especially you, dearest.” Full on dazzler smile. “Most especially when you’re pretending to punish yourself while you’re at it.”

I stopped frowning at him when I noticed how scrunched up my forehead felt. “You look good in blue. You need to let me borrow that shirt. I probably look good in blue as well.”

“Very nicely diverted. Smooth, seamless.”

I thanked him.

“It would never button over your tits, I’m afraid.”

“It would. You’re just not taking into account your own big strong shoulders.”

I’m always thinking of myself as a soulless fuckup when it comes to Cassidy. Then again, perhaps always is a strong word. Often is better.

Right now I’m not sure that what I do with her is so wrong. If I’m pulling her away from anything when I call, it is her little studio. This is what she always tells me.

She usually says, “I’m working.”

She sometimes says, “I’ve been working all day.”

If the answer is yes, she’ll say, “I think I need a break.”

If she were to ever bring up her girlfriend, I think I would probably be pushing her out the front door before I could stop myself. Ok, so maybe I am a soulless fuckup. Still, I know I’ve done worse than the occasional couple hours of mutual, obligation-free feel good.

Cassidy falls pretty low on my list of sins.

“You beat yourself up,” Ben says, “more because you think you should feel bad about it.”

He grins his little ginger tabby grin and shakes his head.  

See, these men who surround me do not equate a little fucking with home wrecking. I suppose Anthony and I could be considered extreme proof of that.

Seriously though, someone around here needs to go ahead and get happy.