Page 142 of The Sinner: James

The universe has a wicked sense of humor when it comes to names.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, pretending I’m dumb so she feels better about herself.

She breathes a sigh.

As if I care.

“Okay, I’m leaving now,” she announces.

That is the greatest news I’ve heard today.

She grabs her coat, wraps her muffler around her neck, and strides to the door.

The old bell chimes as the door swings open, a gust of wind sneaking past her, bringing in specks of snow.

The door slams shut before silence rolls over the shelves.

Finally.

The store is empty at last, and I can breathe with ease.

Drained of energy as though she’s sucked the life out of me for the past half an hour, I crash into a chair and glance around the place, pondering.

I love this bookstore but hate the people I work with.

Wooden shelves line the exposed brick walls, while several leather armchairs and reading tables sit in the middle.

Century-old-looking lamps fit the decor perfectly, glowing around the room and adding to the intimate atmosphere.

A moment later, I push out of the chair and walk to the window.

Flurries of snow keep falling, spinning and twirling, dancing in the air as more streetlights come on while the evening sets in.

The cars drive slowly, barely crawling up the street––nice-looking limousines with well-dressed people inside, mostly couples and a few families with children.

Here and there, I spot a single man or a woman.

An older couple walks their dog, the man holding her hand as they stroll down the sidewalk. They look up at the sky as birds made of snow fall from the clouds.

Christmas decorations glow in the dimness, strings of lights pulsing above the windows––red, green, blue, and silver––while pine wreaths hang on the doors, and lit candles flicker in the windows.

They speak of hope, the magic of a nice home, and time spent with your family and friends, all things that are impossible for me to have right now.

The imagery brings back some happy memories of the past.

The quiet, long winters I spent at home with Mom, Dad, and Eve. The fun I had playing with Eve’s dogs in the snow.

Daria, for the most part, was almost never home.

There was always someplace she needed to be or someone she needed to meet with, and honestly, no one had missed her.

It was not uncommon to have our picturesque town and the beautiful estates and hills surrounding it buried under about two feet of snow by Christmas Eve.

We spent our evenings at home––my place or Eve’s––eating cake, sipping hot chocolate, reading and laughing, planning our lives, and trying to imagine our future.

Whatever I imagined back then was nothing like the life I live right now.

What a wonderful time it was. Beautiful, peaceful, and carefree, it was filled with hope, and now it’s all gone.

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