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It began, as many stories do, in a small town. Squeezed between a bakery and a pharmacy, and entirely too tall and narrow for any two-story building to be, sat a secondhand bookshop.
Customers who entered through its burgundy door would find a golden bell ringing over their heads before stepping into a showroom where organized chaos reigned supreme, and color was its queen.
In this little realm of paper, wooden shelves, and handmade bookmarks you understood yourself as more of a sorceress than a saleswoman.
After all, what was a story, if not a spell?
And what was the beginning of a love story, if not a woman in a suit strolling through the door five minutes before closing time?
You sat at the scratched table in the tiny back room, balancing the register, when the bell rang out and the clack clack clack of heels on hardwood floor introduced her for the very first time.
Smoothing your shirt, you poked your head into the showroom to see if she needed any assistance. You blinked, pulling your glasses from your hair and onto your nose.
The woman's back was turned to you. She stood in front of the 'Dark Academia' display, one hand pressed a phone against her ear while the other held up a novel.
"Listen, toots. That's about as likely to happen as me getting a buzz cut," she purred into the phone.
Her voice was pins and needles. It belonged in a place full of glass cubicles and glossy marble floors.
She was wrapped in a suit that must have been made for her to fit like that. It had gray, wide legged slacks with perfect creases down the middle. A jacket cinched around her waist. A curtain of dark waves tumbled all the way down to the small of her back, a little messy from the wind outside.
"We'll discuss that at the meeting tomorrow, I'll make sure he sees things my way." She hung up without saying goodbye and stuffed the phone into the purse that dangled from the crook of her arm.
You didn't even want to wager a guess at the brand.
The woman continued to read the back of the novel she'd picked. You didn't have any desire to tell her you were about to close.
Instead, you sneaked behind the counter and sat down with your elbows resting on its cluttered surface.
You watched her.
You watched customers all the time, of course. It was part of your craft, to see the people who entered your shop.
Who wanted to browse undisturbed? Who needed help to find the story meant just for them? Who was looking for something specific but didn't quite have the courage to ask for it?
Seeing this woman felt different. She made your fingers twitch, your breath catch. You couldn't read her at all.
There was a movement about her. She didn't rush, but her legs slowly shifted her weight in the habit of someone who was as much verb as she was woman.
You weren't sure what she was here for, and by the way she dropped the novel and turned to the exit, neither was she.
"It's very good." Your words made her pause. You swallowed. "It's good. The book you just snubbed before even taking it out to dinner."
You felt silly for your clumsy flirting. Your fingers played with the hem of your shirt.
She turned on her heel, and you sucked in the smallest of breaths.
Oh, she was magic, wasn't she?
The woman's face was full of contradictions. She had dark brows that arched over light eyes, and a sharp, lovely nose. You imagined her lips were very soft, despite the pointed arch they wore.
"There wasn't even a blurb on the back. Just praises from people I never heard of. It should tell me what it's all about before I take it anywhere." She blinked at you like a cat and stepped up to the register.
When she stopped in front of you, hands wrapping around the edge of the wood, you were enveloped in a pleasant sandalwood scent. She flooded your lungs with every breath; it made you dizzy.
"You don't like surprises?" You tilted your head, hiding your nerves underneath a smile you hoped didn't scream 'customer service'.
"Only when I'm the one doing the surprising." She didn't smile. Her expression was mildly interested at best.
But she hadn't left yet.
"Maybe you could surprise yourself by buying the book," you suggested with a tiny shrug.
Something flashed in her eyes. She wet her lips.
"And if I don't like it?" she asked, revealing a hint of teeth.
Her short, manicured fingernails drummed against the countertop. Narrow, golden rings decorated random fingers and glinted in the lights overhead. She didn't wear a wedding band.
That didn't have to mean anything, you told yourself, but it could mean you had a chance.
"Then you can always come back and pick a different one," you said.
"Is that how you lure in all of your customers?" She leaned forward slightly. The corners of her mouth were twitching.
You shook your head. Luring wasn't part of your job description. But you never got the chance to tell her so.
The phone in her purse started buzzing, the woman's eyes narrowed into sky-blue slits.
She pulled it out, checked the caller id, and cursed softly under her breath. The latter was for your benefit, you thought. She didn't seem the type to soften herself often.
Her eyes snapped to your face. "I'll let you close up." Then, like an afterthought, she added: "Goodbye."
She was gone with one last look, the clack of heels, and the golden bell ringing over the door. A nippy gust of wind dragged in from outside and stole away the smell of her perfume.
After closing the shop, you picked up the novel she'd considered and placed it in a woven basket under the counter, just in case she ever came back.
You hoped she would.
A few days later, you were busy organizing a shelf in the romance section. The shop was empty, filled only with particles of dust and the golden afternoon. You hummed a song under your breath, lost in your own little world.
The sound of a throat clearing pulled you from your thoughts. You startled, pressing the novel in your hands to your chest.
"What's it about?" asked a woman's low voice, somewhere behind your back.
You turned around, pulse thumping against your ribs, and took her in.
You hadn't heard the bell this time, nor the sound of the polished heels that wrapped around her feet. She'd appeared seemingly out of thin air. Her suit was the same cut as last time, but a deep maroon color.
She looked a glorious bloodbath.
You grinned, molars pressed together. "What's what about?"
You pushed the novel you'd been holding back into the shelf before turning your whole attention to her. That was easy. Inevitable. You were drawn to her like a magnet to metal; like a thief to the dark; a secret to an ear.
"The book," she said. The words sounded like eyes rolling. Heads rolling, potentially.
Every part of you itched to sprint behind the counter. You wanted to take the book from its little basket and give her exactly what she was asking for.
But that wasn't what she was here for, was it? You didn't think so. You'd thought of that first encounter too often, now, to believe she wished to be catered to.
Maybe you could find out together, what it was she really wanted. And if you were lucky, that something involved you.
"I have lots of books," you drew out the words, opening your arms to show off the shelves around you. "Anything specific you're looking for?"
"You have lots of nerve, too," the woman hummed. She tapped her lips with her pointer finger. The nail was painted prince purple.
"Why does it matter so much?" you asked as you strolled behind the counter. It took all the self-discipline you had, to keep your pace even and not to stumble over your own game.
You reclaimed your rightful place in your little realm, leaning against the countertop while also creating some space for yourself to think. "Why does it matter what the book is about, I mean."
She looked between you and the spot where you'd just been standing.
Following you would feel like admitting defeat, wouldn't it? You could see it in the way she squared her shoulders. She wandered around the shop instead, looking at everything and nothing while she considered your question.
"I don't like wasting my time. It's rather expensive," she finally said, turning the little stand of postcards with the tip of her finger. It creaked as it moved.
Your brain made much the same sound.
"Ah," you said. "I don't think I can help you, then."
She whipped around, hair flying. "What did you just say?"
Her stare was hard, lips pressed together. She wasn't the type who heard the word 'no' often, you thought.
You took a deep breath, pressing your feet against the floor to ground yourself.
"I can't give you definitives. I can tell you that I liked the book. I can tell you what it's about. And if I were to forget my professional integrity for a moment, I could even tell you how it ends. But enjoying it is up to you, and that only works if you want to enjoy it."
Your mouth went dry; you prayed she wouldn't leave.
There was a beat of time in which the two of you stared at each other, unblinking in the empty shop.
Then, the woman threw back her head and cackled. That was the only way you could describe her laugh. The sound of it went straight to the pit of your stomach; it built itself a house there.
"Fuck it. Sure. I'll buy the book. Wrap it up with something nice, will you?"
You wrapped it with a purple bow that matched her nails and sneaked a mini chocolate bar into her bag as well.
The third time, the woman came in with a bang.
The door was louder than the bell, making it swing precariously. She stood on the threshold for a fragment of a second, a dark silhouette against the light from outside.
Then, she marched right up to the counter, tapping her foot impatiently while you rang up an elderly man's gift for his granddaughter.
When he left — and it was just the two of you once more — she didn't offer a 'hello'.
She smacked the book on the counter. The spine of it was broken, several pages were dog-eared.
"I hated it," she announced, like a victory.
Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows raised. Her entire face said 'Now what?'
You wanted to wrap your hands around it.
You glanced at your watch. It was almost closing time again. Shelving your jitters, you held up a finger to signal her to wait.
It took you seven steps to reach the door and turn the sign. It took you thirteen more to dip into the back room and grab the thermos of cherry tea you kept there. Two mugs found their way into your hands.
Your heart was in your mouth when you set up your haul in the reading nook of the shop. There was a small sofa, a coffee table, a wingback armchair with patches and scuffed feet.
"Tell me." You sat down and patted the spot next to you on the sofa.
She eyed you where you perched, one leg crossed over the other to stop your knees from bouncing. She considered you and your humble offering. Eventually, she sighed like she couldn't believe she was doing this, and joined you.
And oh, she told you. Once she settled on the cushions and parted her lips, she worked herself up into a proper rant, talking with her hands as much as her mouth.
She hated the protagonist and his obsession with aesthetics, his blindness to the deception right in front of him. She hated the antagonist, and his utter incompetence when it came to hushing up a murder. She hated the long winded prose with its endless references to classic literature 'like that made it clever'.
"And," she finally hissed through her teeth, hand gripping your knee in her fervor. "He was so gay, everyone could see it. But did he do anything about it? No. Instead, he spent ages raving about that one girl's 'boyish ankles' like that was a completely straight thing to notice."
"Looks like you did everything right," you laughed, having relaxed somewhere around the ten minute mark of her monologue. "Everyone was meant to be unlikable."
She groaned, finished her tea, and leaned back on the sofa. The woman threw a hand in the air.
"Gimme something else. I'm sick of men making poor decisions. I've got enough of that at work."
"I think I have just the thing," you muttered, already on your feet.
But once you held 'just the thing' in front of your chest (the cover orange and purple, the pages full of feminine rage) turning to where she was sitting, slightly flushed, and with an empty mug in front of her, you reconsidered.
"Lets make a trade," you announced.
"I'm pretty sure that's how shops work, hun. I give you money, you give me the book." She raised an eyebrow.
"I don't want your money."
You watched as her expression closed off with a wary twist of her lips.
"I want your name," you finished.
Her shoulders dropped, face splitting with a smirk.
"Agatha."
Agatha visited every so often after that.
There was no rhythm to this dance of yours. She would leave with a book, and return when she was ready to discuss it. And each time, you were there, waiting for her.
She had a way with words, Agatha did. But she knew them differently from you. Where you found your magic in what was already written, her tongue wove its own spells.
Every review she brought you was a performance, though there was nothing artificial about them. Not in here. Not with you. She paced, raved and gesticulated. She charmed and cursed and hexed.
You would sit and drink tea, utterly bewitched.
This time was different. It had been raining all day, and now come evening, there was a storm brewing outside. Thunder drummed, lightning crackled, and drops of water knocked against the shop windows.
When Agatha entered, she was soaking wet. Hair stuck to her face, mud caked the hem of her slacks. She turned the 'open' sign 'closed' on the way in, stopping on the doormat. A puddle formed around her feet.
"My apartment is just upstairs," you said after you locked away the register. "Let me grab you a towel."
But then you paused to look at her again. There was no book in her hand. She simply stood there, with a forlorn sort of expression dripping down her face. Mascara smudged her cheeks.
"Or," you amended, a knot forming in your stomach. "You could come up with me. Take a shower and stay for dinner?"
It was a bold question, even after dozens of talks between you. She'd never been upstairs. She never asked, you never offered. Both of you were afraid, perhaps, to break the careful balance of your encounters.
Today, it was the right question. It earned you a tight nod. Agatha followed you up the stairs. She was so close, you could feel her shaking.
Once inside, you pushed the door to your bedroom open.
"The bathroom is over there, you can steal something to wear from my dresser if you like." You gently squeezed her shoulder before closing the door behind her.
Worry burned under your nails, under your tongue.
You kept it there, and ignored the sound of the shower as best as you could while you cooked dinner. It was nothing much, your kitchen or your spaghetti. But it would warm her up, and the tomato sauce you made from scratch every other week, portioned to use in your freezer.
Agatha knew you weren't fancy like her. She'd never complained, not in earnest anyway.
Dinner was almost ready when she padded into the kitchen. Her long hair hung dark and shiny, her pale face was bare of make up. She wore one of your oversized t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants.
The sight would have done unspeakable things to you if not for her expression. She looked so lost, almost absent from her own body.
Your forehead crinkled. You hoped nobody had died.
"Sit." You invited, pulling out a chair for her. "Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Please," she sighed as she sat. It should have been impossible, to simultaneously sit with one's back ramrod straight and one's shoulders hunched. Agatha managed it, somehow.
You poured two glasses, plated the food, and sat across from her. You didn't clink your glasses, neither of you touched the dish.
Agatha stared at her plate. You stared at Agatha.
"What's wrong?" you finally asked. Because asking if something was wrong would be idiotic at this point.
"Nothing," she scoffed. "It's stupid. I'm sorry. I shouldn't bother you like this."
She didn't get up. You didn't ask again.
You forwent etiquette, and started eating even though you didn't have an appetite. Maybe she needed a bit of normalcy, permission to let go of whatever formality she thought stood between you.
After a long while Agatha took a sip of her wine. Her teeth clanked against the glass. She chuckled, wet and ugly.
"It's my birthday today."
"Happy birthday."
She scoffed again.
"Happy. Right. I get it, you know? I know I'm not a good person. I'm not likeable or whatever. But I've kept that company afloat for fifteen years and no one even said a word. No card, no email, nothing. And now I'm here ruining your evening over my stupid feelings."
You swallowed, reaching over the table to hook your pinky with hers, afraid she'd run off if you came on too strong, but unable not to offer something.
"You're allowed to be sad. You deserve to have people who celebrate you."
"Oh, hun. There's nothing to celebrate. Forty years of life and what did it get me? Two divorces, no friends, a perfect career." Her breath stuttered, her back curved. Damp hair fell forward and obscured her face. "A lovely shopkeeper a decade my junior who could spent her evening with any woman she likes."
"I like you," you said, immediately. You weren't even thinking, your mouth moved so fast. "You're witty, I enjoy talking to you. Or just watching you talk. You open your mouth and you surprise me. Every day I keep looking at the door and wish you come to visit me. And the days you do are by far the best."
Agatha's eyes had turned molten sometime during your fumbling speech. Tomato sauce was dripping on the table from the prongs of your fork.
"So." You released her hand with a squeeze that you felt in your chest. "This is what's going to happen: I'm gonna light a candle, and were going to have a nice dinner right here. Had I known, I would have baked a cake. But I do have a pack of cookies somewhere in my cupboard that we can have for dessert. I might even sing happy birthday when I dig them out. And you can pretend your ears aren't bleeding."
"Please don't sing." Agatha whispered, her smile was almost shy. She took the fork and spoon beside her plate and started to roll up some spaghetti.
"No promises." You exhaled and lit a candle between you.
Later that night, the two of you were cuddled up on your bed, under the comforter, watching a movie on your laptop. The rain outside had turned into a soft drizzle.
Agatha was warm. Your head rested on her shoulder, one of her arms was wrapped around your waist. She smelled like your soap and was playing with your hair, twirling it this way and that, with her eyes unfocused somewhere just to the left of the screen.
"Hun?" she asked quietly after a while. She let go of your hair and her fingers splayed against your stomach.
"Yeah?"
"Why aren't you making your move?" Her lips ghosted just next to your ear.
You froze; heat crept under your skin. Your breath turned to sparks in your lungs. Wide awake, you raised your head and looked up at her chin.
"I wasn't going to," you admitted.
"I see." Agatha's voice was flat, emotionless. It rang too similar to how she'd sounded when you first met: manufactured proof she couldn't care less at all.
You huffed a frustrated noise, scrambling into a sitting position, legs straddling her lap. You looked her in the eye. They were dark like this, almost purple. The movie had turned into background noise.
"That's not…I don't…I don't want you to get the wrong idea," you tripped over your words.
"What's the right idea, then? Should I pencil a third divorce into my calendar? Five years from now, maybe?" Agatha said it like a joke, but it didn't sound like one. Her eyes were dead serious.
You bit your lip, fingers curling around the comforter. Anger mixed with your hot red blood. You couldn't believe she would dismiss you — the two of you, here, together — like that.
"No," you said, leaning forward until your noses were almost touching. "I'm greedy, Agatha. Always have been. You know that. I want everything. All the stories. All the magic. Every part of you. I can't promise a happily ever after. But I will not let you set us up to fail before we even start."
Agatha's lips were trembling. "You know, this is a pretty shit birthday. I haven't even got a present."
It was so random, you laughed despite your irritation. "What did you want, then?"
"Kiss me."
It began, as few stories do, in a bedroom over a secondhand bookshop. It looked a little shabby from the outside: squeezed between a bakery and a pharmacy, and entirely too tall and narrow for any two-story building to be.
Agatha had entered it looking for a distraction. She'd opened that burgundy door, she'd heard that golden bell, and thought how childish it all was, this play pretend of magic.
But then there'd been you. And in this little place of paper, wooden shelves, and handmade bookmarks — just a block away from the cold glass and steel of her office — Agatha fell in love with a woman who might just be a witch.
After all, what was love, if not a spell?
And what was magic, if not two women with vignettes in their eyes, kissing on a bed filled with cookie crumbs?