When I finished my workload, it's about time I fix myself for class. I am so hungover on that event that I'm not able to mentally prepare myself enough to return to the university. I really don’t want to go right now. It’s so hard to face the world after what I just did. That I scared a girl so much that she ran away from me. She ran. Away. From me. Hah, it really shows how pathetic of a man I am.

My head resting on the table, I gather what’s left of my withering courage to will myself to move.

By the time I come out of the stockroom, the boss is spacing out on the counter. The books I left are already on display, the spares piled on the low shelf behind her.

She looks at me with a blank face and says, “You done sulking?”

Fixing my glasses, I nod.

“The girl’s left,” she says, then waves me a book. “This is for you.”

“Huh?” I take a closer look. The book has a clear blue sky as a background, with pink blossoms being whisked away from its tree on the bottom. Vague mathematical equations clutter the upper part, with the title reading, ‘The Housekeeper and the Professor, Yoko Ogawa’.

I hesitate, but the boss thrusts it into my hands. “What’s this for?”

“The girl bought that book as an apology for your sorry arse.”

My brain suddenly stops. “What?”

“What ‘What’? Because of your introvertedness, the girl went and spent eight pounds just because she thought she scared you. Did you hear that right? She, a wee girl, thought she scared the daylights out of you, a full-pledged male adult.”

I have no words. I'm trying to figure out if the boss is even joking or just plain narked.

“She even asked me if you had a fever of something. You must be too chuffed to realize you were blushing all over the place.”

I catch myself on the knees, unable to process everything. Wait a minute. So, does that mean… What does that mean, exactly? She bought me a book because I was scared? What? And what about the fever? She has a fever, that’s why she was blushing or something?

“Oi, you still have class–”

“Shush!” I crouch down, pressing my palms on both sides of my head. “One thought at a time.”

The boss stares down at me with a baffled expression, but then dismisses it. “Christ! You’re just like your mother.” She turns back to the shop.

It takes a full minute for my thoughts to finally catch up. I realize I’ve been holding my breath the entire time. I inhale deep, then exhale to calm myself.

“Have you processed it now?” The boss looks at me.

I nod. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Just hurry now or you’ll miss your classes.”

Right, I have afternoon classes today. I turn to fetch my bag on the first floor, my head still a bit numb. The girl’s scared face starts to surface again, but then the boss’s words distorts the image. I wonder why she thought I was scared of her when I’m pretty sure it was the other way around…? Now I’m not so sure anymore if I interpreted the girl’s expression right or it was just my stupid overthinking.

“Ah.” Something pops into mind, and I turn back to her. “About the cat, what’s with ‘the cat’?”

She looks at me, confused.

“You know, because you said that I ‘scared away the cat’. Are you talking about something Socrates did?”

“Aaah,” she exhales in remembrance. “That’s the name the girl uses when she reserves her books. Cat.”

“Oh…” I’m about to say her name when the boss chimes in with more.

“No, not ‘Cath’ with the ‘th’. Just ‘Cat’, as in feline, just like your pet Socrates.”

Huh, okay. “Cat.” I taste the name in my mouth. It doesn’t linger in the tongue for long.

The boss chuckles at me, and I feel my face flush. “You got it. Now get going, you’re already running late.”

I scuttle away from the counter, feeling somewhat defeated. I’m already halfway up the stairs when she calls, “Nicomachus!”

I flinch. Urgh, why does she have to call me that? “It’s completely fine to call me Mach, granny.”

But she doesn’t seem to hear and continues, “You better treat the cat for a cuppa and apologize!”

I sigh. “Yes, granny.” I hurry along.

This always happens to me. Just like the girl, I’m too weak with people. It’s the reason why I’d rather be cooped up in my little counter upstairs than be constantly faced with people on the ground floor. Because no one ever goes upstairs. All the new literature gets displayed downstairs and the old ones are dumped here. And because of this arrangement, a lot of people forget that we also sell second-hand books, and it seems that one sign isn’t enough to persuade them that the first floor is also part of the shop. The rickety old lift next to the stairs doesn’t help sell the place either.

No one I know really likes old books. They smell musty, fragile and allergic. Even I didn’t like it at first. I remember as a child speeding past the first floor before I get a whiff of the smell, or else I’ll be sneezing all over the place. But through the years I learned to love it as I read more and more, until I became the boss’s assistant, even though all I ever do is sit behind the counter and quietly read what’s left unread until it’s closing time. Rarely do people come up here. And when they do, I still find myself having no obligation to entertain them until they approach me themselves.

There’s a unique charm about the first floor, and I think the girl kept coming here because she’s caught onto it too. There’s something about the crammed shelves and the tangy biblichor, the piled-up books cluttering the place that there’s barely any walk space, and the bigger hardbound books sitting on top of the shelves that dims everything into a brown etherealness that can only be witnessed in second-hand bookshops. It’s a complete opposite of the ground floor, which is spacious, brightly lit, and constantly breathing soft ambient music. The enclosed warmth between the papers, the quietude that allows only the sweetened notes from downstairs to trickle in, and the homely yet stuffy air of the place… before I knew it, it has become my own little piece of heaven.

I can still remember the first time I saw her. I just got home from a massive downpour, and the boss was scolding me for coming into the shop completely soaked even though I had an umbrella on me. I slunk through the displays, careful not to drip on them. I was stressed out after my classes were rescheduled without notice, and I just had to stop by the first floor for a breather, careful not to damage the books. I dropped my bag on the counter and looked out to the big eyes on the other side of the room. The lights were off, and the dimness of the place somewhat pacified me a bit.

And that’s when I saw her. Sitting in one of the tables and nodding off in her peculiar yet enchanting way.

Lovely, was the first word that came to my mind. I was completely taken. My skin has always prickled alive before her presence ever since then.

I can never forget that scene, especially when a particular piece plays from the speakers down below. Before I go down, backpack already slung on my shoulder, I look once again to the other side of the room, just like what I had done back then.

As I listen carefully to its replay, I can’t help but relive that sublime feeling I first felt between the muffled stillness of the indoors and the radiance of the fading drizzle outside, softly scintillating the whole room with the last sunlight of summer, and her almost translucent figure, faintly glowing in the distance:

A niche piece by the Singaporean artist Sonicbrat, entitled, Two Moons.

[Theory 1 - END]