Christiana Dame dragged herself to work everyday. If she were to be honest, however, her workdays were not as draining as she told herself they were. She truly loved working with books and while many people did not like her, their dislike had never once stopped her from liking them. She could admire from afar and be intrigued, even if from afar was not far enough away from her for the people.

   Of course, there would always be the odd cat in the bushel. Ray Carnton, for example, a young librarian who hung around Cathy's Bookshop after he finished work. Christiana didn't mind him, but she was uncomfortable in his presence. She didn't like the way he looked at her... it was too familiar.

    The one real complaint she had about her job was Mr. Cathy's air-conditoning system. He was from Switzerland and insisted anything above seventy degrees was boiling hot. Most of the profit from his store went towards keeping his A/C at sixty something degrees. Christiana often wore jeans to work and a sweater. Which was fine with her, as it covered some of her... less appealing qualities. But stepping out from sixty degrees to ninety degrees was not easy. Her constitution couldn't always handle the frigid to steaming temperatures. Not to mention, many people called out to her on the street about wearing jeans and sweaters in the middle of summer, and she hated being in the center of attention.

    But overall, she liked her job.

    Mr. Cathy was an undeniable romantic, like her, and he was quite funny. He was in his seventies, gray haired, and a widower. His wife had died fifteen years ago, and her name had been Cathy. She loved reading. So to honor her, he changed his surname and hung a picture of her up in the center of the bookstore the couple had been saving up for years to buy. Mr. Cathy often walked around in Bermuda shorts and tropical shirts... that is, on days he wasn't dressing up. He often dressed up - and to Christiana's dismay, had her dress up - as different characters from stories. Once a month he held a party in his store promoting a classic novel. In the time Christiana had worked there, they had gone through Great Expectations, where Mr. Cathy was Pip and she was Miss Havisham, Sense and Sensibility, where he was Colonel Brandon and she was Elinor Dashwood, Harry Potter, where he was Professor Dumbledore and she was Harry, Gone with the Wind, Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'hara, and Holmes and Watson, and Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, to name a few.

  Christiana walked into the bookstore, and the familiar chime of the bell announced her arrival.

   "Hey Mr. Cathy, I'm  - did I miss the dress like a pirate memo?"

     She glanced confusedly at her employer, who was currently stacking books and donning an eyepatch, buckled purple boots, and a stuffed animal parrot on his shoulder that had 'Polly wanna cracker' stitched into its chest.

   "Arghhh, Christine," Mr. Cathy said, using his nickname for her. "Welcome to the poopdeck, me arty. No, I never sent a memo, I just felt like drssing up. Can you take the stack of travel books over to the starboard side, me arty?"

   Christiana threw her purse in the general direction of the office and picked up the seven books piles on the counter. "Sure. But I think the correct term is me hearty, not arty. Arty sounds like someone's name."

    Mr. Cathy pouted at her like a small child denied a coveted piece of candy. "Oh, Christiana, you're no fun."

   "And you are quite spontaneous."

   "Moi?"

    "Oui, vous."

   "Tu, Christine, I'm a friend."

   "Je suis desole, mon ami. I am sorry, my friend."

    Mr. Cathy just chuckled heartily.

                           ✖

    On her lunch break, Christiana walked the half mile to the local library to see if they had any broken books that needes fixing, since Mr. Cathy was teaching her the art of glueing books back together. And she also wanted to go now because Ray Carton wouldn't be there. She didn't want to politely rebuff his advances any more than she had to.

   Fortunately for her, he was not there and the head librarian had had five new books delivered that were each between twenty and thirty years old and had ruined covers.

  Now it was not protocol for a library to allow a bookstore to fix their books, nor, was either party entirely sure if it was indeed legal, but both sides didn't believe in throwing out perfectly good vocabularic masterpieces that could be salvaged. And Mr. Cathy had not yet met a book he could not mend.

    As Christiana was coming out of the library with her arms full if books, she noticed a sleek black Toyota parked outside the local diner. The windows were tinted and she couldn't see inside, but something made her look in the car's direction.

   She did not know that the driver, who had just pulled up was also watching her, with an equal intensity.

    Pulling herself back to reality, Christiana continued her walk.

    She halfheartedly considered stopping somewhere for something to eat, but decided against it. Mr. Cathy always had sunflower seeds lying around, she'd grab a handful of those when he arrived back. If she wanted to finish recovering those books by the end of the day, she and Mr. Cathy would have to get right to them, immediately.

    Unfortunately, an unwelcome sight met her on her way into the bookstore. Ray Carnton was having a coversation with Mr. Cathy. And she had something to do with the subject matter.

   She gently placed the worn books in the office before joining the men at the counter.

    Ray stood tall and proud at about six foot two, and his muscular body only served to make him look taller and broader than the average man. In high school, during the one year she went, she remembered him as a snobby quarterback who went through girl after girl, most of them being cheerleaders and rich, beautiful, preppy girls who were fashionable and poised.

   Why he showed an interest in her, she didn't know.

   "Hello Christy," said Ray.

   She did not approve of how he made up a nickname for her without asking her if she liked it. And he usually switched between Christy and Chrissy, like he couldn't decide. If Christiana, however, was going to be called something  - by anyone other than her adorable manager - she would like it to be either her full name, or Chris, what her father once called her.

    "Hello Mr. Carnton, how are you?"

   "Great!" Did he have to shout it?

    "Young Ray and I were just talking about Friday. He's excited to hear you sing and he's entering the costume contest for the Phantom."

    Christiana knew this Friday their party was themed for a nod and ode towards Halloween and The Phantom of the Opera, but this was the first she had heard about her singing.

   "What? Singing? I can't..." she already felt nauseous from te anxiety of something she hadn't yet agreed to. Oh god, singing in front if people? How was she to do that when she could barely sing for herself without feeling embarrassed?

   "Oh yes you can. I remember that time you sang for my wife. Beautiful it was. Please?" His wife was onher deathbed, and she, who had been a sort of adoptive mother to Christiana, had asked her to sing her favorite song to her, one last time, not even knowing if the girl could sing.

    "I was a child then. Voices change."

   "Please? You must!"

    Christiana never knew how to say no. "Fine." But if she vomited on stage or passed out, she swore she would dig a hole, stuff it with books and then crawl in it herself and plant a big rock over the top.

   No, that is not dramatic in the least.

   "I am excited to hear you. I am positive your voice will be as lovely as your beauty," Ray gushed.

  Christiana sensed he was about to ask her out so she changes the subject.

   "Mr. Cathy, I just picked up a lot of books that need to be fixed. We have a lot to do..."

   "Alright. Sorry Ray, gotta go, matey. This little funny wench likes to work. Arghh."

   "Arghh. Good by Chrissy sweetie."

   "Bye!"

    She practically dragged Mr. Cathy away.

    "You know you could give him a chance. The poor lad is smitten," Mr. Cathy said as he perused her offerings.

   "He seems very sweet, but I don't like dating."

   She had once gone so far as to tell someone she was A sexual and wanted to be a nun just to get them to leave her alone.

   "And I don't like how he looks at me."

   Mr. Cathy laughed. "You don't like the way every man looks in general."

   "Oh, these poor books. Thank goodness we can help them."

   "Poor books indeed, what about a poor fellow's heart?"

   "Help me with the books Mr. Cathy.

     
   Several hours later, Mr. Cathy closed down the shop, exactly at six o'clock, and Christiana was heading out the door with her armload of newly bound and glued books, a pile which had grown with two extra returns on her part. They were not due for another two weeks, but Christiana always brought her books back immediately after she finished them.

   But the two made her load heavier, and the books stole her concentration, for she would hate herself for dropping them.

   She was so absorbed in the titles in her arms she never saw or heard the sleek black car until it was too late.

    A/N The song to this chapter is Dead Girl Walking, from the musical: Heathers.