The phone bumped me to consciousness the following dawn. Blur, murky glow panned in through my sheer curtains, symbolizing some freakishly early hour. Somewhere here, nonetheless, that proportion of gleam could have demonstrated anything from daylight to long midday.
After four rounds, I ultimately stooped to retort, accidentally thumping Kinny out of the mattress. She got down with a infuriated mhew and prowled off to tidy up herself.
"Hello?"
"Yo, Collins?"
"No." My reply appeared swift and specific. "I'm not coming in."
"You don't even realize I'm going to ask that."
"Of course I realize. There's no other purpose you'd be phoning me this early, and I'm not going to do it. It's my day off, Wilson."
Wilson, the other deputy manager at my day job, was a pretty nice fellow, but he couldn't maintain a poker face—or mouthpiece —to preserve his life.
His calm conduct instantly gave means to desperation. "Everyone convened in squeamish today, and now we're strapped. You have to do it."
"Well, I'm sick too. Trust me, you don't need me there."
Okay, I wasn't actually sick, but I was still exhibiting a residual afterglow from being with Frank. Mortals would not "see" it as Guane had per seen, but they would feel it and be attracted to it—men and women alike—without actually recognizing why. My detention today would deter any unreasonable, love-sick attitude. It was quite kind of me, certainly.
"Liar. You're never sick."
"Wilson, I was already scheduling on coming back tonight for the signing. If I labor a switch today too, I'll be there all day. That's nauseous and twisted."
"Welcome to my planet, babe. We possess no option, not if you truly mind about the fate of the shop, not if you certainly care about our clients and their happiness…"
"You're relinquishing me, cowboy."
"So," he proceeded, "the issue is, are you going to come here voluntarily, or do I have to stroll over there and pull you out of bed myself? Honestly, I wouldn't heed the latter."
I did a cognitive eye twirl, reprimanding myself for the billionth time about dwelling two fences from work. His wandering about the bookstore's suffering had been effective, as he'd realized it would. I performed under the untrue notion that the place couldn't survive without me.
"Well, rather than compromise any more of your endeavors at witty, sexual jest, I think I'll have to come over there. But Wilson…" My vocalist swerved heavy.
"Yeah?"
"Don't put me on the directories or anything." I heard hesitancy on his end.
"Wilson? I'm serious. Not the major records. I don't wish to be around a plenty of customers."
"All right," he mumbled finally. "Not the primary registers."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
A half hour later, I walked outside my door to stride the two blocks to the bookstore. Lengthy hazes hung low, dimming the sky, and a pale cold touched the atmosphere, compelling some of my fellow pedestrians to wear a coat. I had opted for none, locating my khaki slacks and brown chenille sweater more than sufficient.
The outfit, just like the edge glow and eye-liner I'd carefully applied this morning, were substantial; I had not shape-shifted into them. I admired the systematic nature of applying makeups and uniform articles of outfit,
however Hugh would have alleged I was just being unusual again.
Star City Books & Café was a sprawling enterprise, inhabiting nearly a full block in Seattle's Queen Anne neighborhood. It stood two stories high, with the café portion dominating a second-floor intersection glimpsing the Space Needle.
An optimistic green awning hung over the central door, safeguarding those clients waiting for the shop to open. I sauntered around them and entered through a side door, using my staff key.
Wilson propelled me before I'd taken two strides inside. "It's about time. We…" He halted and performed a double-take, reexamining me. "Wow. You look…really charming today. Did you do something different?"
Just a thirty-four-year-old virgin, I imagined.
"You're only visualizing things because you're so glad I'm here to rectify your staffing dilemma. What am I doing? Stock?"
"I, er, no." Wilson strived to snap out of his mist, still glancing me up and down in a manner I found disconcerting. His interest in dating me was no personal, nor was my persistent refusal. "Come on, I'll show you."
"I told you—"
"It's not the major registers," he promised me.
What "it" came out to be was the espresso counter in our upstairs café. Bookstore staff barely ever subbed up here, but it wasn't unheard of.
Bruce, the café manager, banged up from where he'd been crouching behind the counter. I always guessed Wilson and Bruce could be twins in a mixed-race, alternate-reality kind of way.
Both had lengthy, scraggly ponytails, and both wore a good deal of flannel in compliment to the grunge age neither had completely recovered from.
They differed primarily in their complexion. Wilson was Japanese-American, black-haired with flawless membrane; Bruce was Mr. Aryan Nation, all lustrous hair and blue eyes.
"Hey Wilson, Katharina," professed Bruce. His sights broadened at me. "Whoa, you look incredible today."
"Wilson! This is just as terrible. I confided you I didn't need any customers."
"You notified me not the basic records. You didn't let out anything about this one."
I unlocked my mug to revolt, but Bruce hesitated. "Come on, Katharina, I had Matt call in sick today, and Gwen certainly quit." Discerning my stony mood, he promptly put in, "Our registers are nearly similar to yours. It'll be easy."
"Besides"—Wilson lifted his mouthpiece to a satisfactory fabrication of our supervisor's—"'assistant supervisors are reckoned to be eligible to fill in for anybody around here.'"
"Yeah, but the café—"
"—is still part of the store. Look, I've got to go open. Bruce'll show you what you desire to understand. Don't bother, it'll be fine." He rapidly flickered off before I could decline again.
"Coward!" I wailed after him.
"It surely won't be that awful," Bruce repeated, not comprehending my anguish. "You simply take the money, and I'll make the espresso. Let's practice on you. You need a white chocolate mocha?"
"Yeah," I agreed. Everyone I labored with learned about that particular guilt. I usually managed to knock down three of them a day. Mochas that was, not colleagues.
Bruce walked me through the essential strides, illustrating how to mark up the cups and locate what I desired to shove on the directory's touch-screen interface. He was exact. It wasn't so terrible.
"You're a realistic," he ensured me later, handing over my mocha.