CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER 40: GEZZA IN MARIE HOME

The air was thick with lemon polish and old paper, and Gezza could feel his lungs burning with the inhale.

"I am not one of those creeps, you see? His voice broke, lie dripping like sweat. "The history’s just... amazing."

Marie pulled her glasses up narrowing her eyes behind them—click as they squeeked up the glare of the fluorescent lights like knives.

A sharp gasp slipped out. "I still don’t trust you."

Gezza pushed greasy hair, snickering strands falling against fingers. Use the book? The idea was slimy, and unnatural.

The Playbook was beating against his spine--low, threatening growl.

"How’d it work?" he strained, bent and the desk creaked with his palms.

Marie glanced away, awkward. "Books have read tell’s... You requirer part of the name of the woman."

"Full name", Gezza interrupted, too fast.

Her head snapped back. "How do you know that?"

Gezza grinned--no warmth--all teeth.

"Call it a hunch." Advancing to her ear, his breath hot and sour, he said: I have the book.

The lips of Marie twitched--then burst into laughter so sharp and sudden, that it bounced back among shelves, like a hail of smashing glass.

"You wish--that’s hilarious!"

Gezza grumbled with his teeth. "Shh--readers."

Playbook chimed What are you doing?

Marie wiped a tear, and remained smiling nonetheless. "Prove it. Show me."

"Not here." He tossed his head in the direction of Riley--dog tags gleaming, crossed arms at the carrel. "Meet me later. I’ll bring it."

Marie’s laugh died. "I don’t know you. And I never take home strangers—"

Gezza grabbed her open book--leather spine groaned like withered flesh--wrote his number in slashing ink.

"Call when you are ready for real magic."

He threw the pen--clack, and stride, treading, his heart bringing a bang, bang, bang to his ears.

Marie from behind him looked at the number and scoffed.

----

The library doors banged behind Gezza with a mighty thump, the sound of Riley’s boots reverberating to the sound of a gunshot down the marble steps, disappearing into the bustle of the afternoon.

Even the streetlights were coming on early and illuminating the wet street in orange puddles, the air heavy with smoke and rain in the distance. His phone rang in his pocket, vibrated against his thigh- unknown number.

The screen glowed: 8 PM. 3B. Don’t be late. No signature, but he knew.

His heart ached, a cocky-thrilling, gnawing fear, the weight of the Playbook made the zipper of his backpack ache, the Playbook and its runes, like a second heartbeat.

Hours Crawled , the day breaking into jump cuts. He walked over and over the floor of his room, creaking with his sneakers, the voice of his mom, heard earlier--"Back before sundown"--still as but air.

His reflection of the hallway mirror had a greasy haired matted head, eyes too bright, a sleazy grin that he could not quite force.

When she sees it she will beg, the thought fluttered, hot and familiar. But a fresh crack, unwilling and keen.

The Playbook was impatiently thrumming, and its warmth could be felt leaking through the material, ridiculing him at his indecisiveness..

In a gulp Night seized the city, and the shadows stretched out as fingers over the broken pavements.

The cables of the elevator were shouting upwards, the ding bitter in the stifling air of the Marie art-deco house, the bulbs in the hallways flickering with a dull buzz.

Gezza came out at the third floor, where his breath fogged a little in the cold, and the pulse of the Playbook matched his mad frenzied beat.

The Door 3B was chipped in paint, with a glow of light out of the crack below.

Before he knocked it creaked open, and in the glow was the figure of Marie, with her oversized cardigan sleeves pulled up to her elbows, glasses off, her hair in a messy bun.

Silver gleaming in the dim bulb as a reminder not to touch it.

"You are late", she said, in a flat voice, looking at him with cold distrust, without the air of the playfulness of the library.

"I had something to do", Gezza mumbled, his voice, as the flicker of the bulb in the corridor flung distorted shadows across his face. "Can I come in?"

"Stop." Marie put up her hands, palms out, stopping him as he took a step. "Show me the book first. Before I let you in."

A cocky grin spread on Gezza lips, and his heart beat was thumping with sleazy excitement and fear.

With a sharp rasp he unzipped his backpack and the Playbook fell into his hands, its runes glowing in faint light, red as he had never seen, the old writing on the cover twitching like living veins.

Marie stood still with eyes open. A sharp inhalation gripped her throat.

"It was real, all right", she said as she tore it out of his grip, thinking about the smell of the leather, and her flesh against it.

She turned, and went in, the door swinging open with low creaking, and hoisting the book up high in the light of her one bulb, the runes faintly reflected on the walls in bloody glimpses.

Gezza came behind, the door falling behind him with a faint bang of his sneakers on the carpets, the smell sweet and oppressive--vanilla candles and the scent of old books, pages turning yellow and crisp.

Her dining table creaked with piles of books, the furniture was sunk into books, and the room was like a tower of shelves reaching up to the ceiling.

The sheer number of his head seemed heavy, the dust-motes of the bulb as a trance blowing their dust in the haze, swirling in his senses.

"Too many books", he said, a sickly state of rapture crept up, his eyes lingered on the systemized disorder.

"Where did you find it?" Marie swiveled around, her eyes now completely full of pure joy and interest, her unattractive bun beginning to release strands of hair which encircled her face.

In a library being demolished, Gezza said, as he felt himself sinking on her couch with cushions sighing at his weight his voice easy and yet tinged with paranoia.

"Awesome", she said to herself, holding the Playbook even deeper in her hands, the runes glimpsing rhythmically with her enthusiasm. "The possibility of you stumbling on it so easily? That’s not luck--that’s destiny."

He changed, the couch springs aching. "I thought you hated the book."

"No." Her head shook, her laugh sharp, and her voice was firm and convinced. "You got it wrong. I despise the individuals who envision and desire and take no action—they are a waste of news."

She grinned to him than, sincere and radiant, and she threw aside the Playbook on the table with the thud of an iron hammer.

"But you aren’t." She went to her bookshelf, where there was a book in the upper shelf, and her skirt was lifted up, baring a bit of thigh. Gezza sat and stared, his pants tight with a hot, a changing need, the sleazy response coming—write her name, make her mine.

But he was hesitant, and a weird divide opened in his chest, and his fingers jerked in his side, to no purpose. Why the fuck am I waiting?