Enjoy the Fucking Sunshine

Previously: Preparation. Now: execution.

Two days later, Allen was ready. He had been standing in the sun glare, frozen before the bookstore, as though waiting for a sign. Seven minutes. That’s all it took to ruin everything. Again. The glass reflected his own face back at him—pale, wide-eyed. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, cleared his throat, pushed the door. The tinny bell chimed (why a chime in that place?). Inside, the air smelled of paper and—glue? nail polish? Shelves stretched like rows of soldiers. There she is. She stood behind the counter, stacking books with careful movements. Her hair pulled into a high ponytail, fell over one shoulder, the sleeve of her jumper riding up to reveal a thin silver bracelet, and that necklace with a pendant. She didn’t look up. This is it. Now is the time to save her from this hellhole. Replay how she looked at you last time, what she actually said—not some fantasy you spun in your head. That wasn’t flirtation. It was a plea. You missed it at first. But it’s obvious. And you ha…