I spent most of my day, unintentionally, at this little old bookstore in the South Side called The Pen. The Pen was one of the small independent bookstores that were set in an old row storefront. It had been there forever.
The Pen had two floors, each with 12-foot-high ceilings. Every inch of wall space was covered by shelves that were packed with new and used books. The center of the second floor was open, with a traditional, wrought-iron, spiral staircase in the center to take you from the first to second floors. Once on the second floor landing there were a series of four walkways that came off the landing to get you to the second floor shelves. There were ladders that rolled all along the shelves so you could get to things on the top shelf.
I loved it here because it wasn’t like all of those big corporate chain stores. There was no coffee shop or music department. Just lots of books. There were no help-your-self kiosks and they did not carry every title ever published, although I have no doubt that they could get it. The Pen was the sort of place you could go if you needed a book to find you. It was a great joint to go and just look around, particularly when you know you are looking for something, but you just don’t know what it is. Today was one of those days. My brain was still buzzing with everything that had happened the night before, so much so that I couldn’t concentrate on any one thing that was bugging me.
I probably would have ended up spending the whole day there if my tummy hadn’t had different plans. At about 3 o’clock my stomach started growling something fierce and I decided I better find some blood soon, before I ended up eating a pigeon in the alleyway. 666 was on this side of town, but they were always packed, so I decided to head to O Negative instead, because I wanted a more relaxed atmosphere and I wanted to check up on the place for Luna.
As I retreated down the spiral stairs from the second to the first floor I glanced over the railing into a box one of the employees was unpacking. The book on top was a Simone de Beauvoir book titled All Men are Mortal.
“Excuse me, but may I see that book?” I asked, tapping the boy on the shoulder. He jumped, book in hand and stared at me.
“Huh?” he responded, a dumbstruck look on his face.
“The book, may I see it?” I asked again, pointing to his hand. He reached out the book, still staring. “Thank you,” I said, taking the book from his hands. I quickly scanned the book description. It read:
“Probably Simone de Beauvoir’s strangest and most compelling novel, All Men are Mortal is a captivating exemplum of existentialist credo. A beautiful and accomplished young actress revives as downcast stranger at a French resort. He becomes thoroughly attached to her at first and confides a terrifying truth: he is immortal.” etc. etc. It was exactly what I was looking for.
The boy was still standing there, gawking at me, a half smile on his face. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You know it’s not really polite to stare hon, people might get the wrong idea.” I straightened up and he looked me in the eyes and blushed a little. “Thanks again, you made my day,” I flashed a smile at him, winked and went to the register.
Just as I got to the corner, I heard someone jogging, coming up on me quickly. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than 21-years-old, had followed me out and was catching up to me. He called out, “You’re really pretty you know.”
I turned under my umbrella and smiled. “Well, thank you,” I said.
“Your hands were so cold in there, you should put down your umbrella and warm yourself up in the sun,” he said. I raised my hand a wiggled my fingers.
“I’ve got gloves, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Still, it’s such a nice day, why hide from it? Perhaps we could go get a cup of coffee and sit on the patio. My treat,” he added at the last minute.
“You’re sweet,” I said, “but I don’t drink coffee.”
“A tea then, or hot chocolate.”
“Thank you, but no.” I was flattered by his persistence. “Besides, I don’t think you would like me in the sun.”
“I doubt that.” He thought for a moment “Okay then, how about a cocktail? There are some great bars on this street.”
“Thank you again, but alcohol is not my drug of choice. Your determination is very charming, but I’m just not interested,” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and then skipped across the intersection. He smelled delicious, so much so that my fangs had started to extend from hunger. I had to get something to eat.
He crossed right after me and suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, doll, one drink won’t kill you. Gimmie a chance.”
Yeah, but it might kill you, I thought. Doll? Who did he think he was dealing with? He was beginning to push my limits on niceties. “Say,” I said, turning to face him, “what’s your name?”
“Sean,” he said with a triumphant smile.
“Say, Sean, tell me something,” I said cocking my head to the side and taking a step toward him. He took a step back, still smiling.
“Anything,” he replied, raising his eyebrow, encouraging me to fill in my name.
“Veronica.”
“Veronica,” he repeated thoughtfully, “what would you like to know?” The cockiness oozed from his voice.
“What I would like to know, Sean, is your blood type.” I took a few more confidant steps towards him.
“Excuse me?” Sean asked, clearly confused. He had begun backpedaling as I stepped towards him.
“Your blood type hon.” He had come to the corner and had stopped backing up. I stopped when we were about six inches apart.
“Why would you want to know that?” he asked, trying not to sound nervous.
“Tell you what Sean, I’m going to try and guess.” He let out a little snort of laughter. “If I guess wrong, I’ll let you take me to 666 for a drink. If I guess right, you’ll drop it and let me go home.” Sean shrugged and nodded in agreement, a smug look on his face.
“What’s your favorite cocktail, so I know what to order when I get there?” he said.
“We’ll discuss that if I lose.” I winked at him and leaned over bringing both of us under my umbrella. He stood still, as I brought my face up to his neck. I was so hungry by this point my fangs were fully extracted beneath my lips. My stomach gurgled in response to his heart rate, as it picked up speed. Whether it was from nervousness or curiosity I did not know.
I brushed my small nose along his throat, from his collarbone up to his chin, breathing in his scent as I went. He shivered imperceptibly under the cold of my touch, goose bumps forming in my nose’s wake. I had felt him tense slightly from shock when he felt the temperature difference between us. His smell was so intoxicating it took a lot of strength for me to skip my instincts and bring myself back to the corner of 24th and Bell St.
“So what do you think Red Cross?” he was trying to be sarcastic, but his voice cracked a bit from nerves.
“I think,” I said taking a step back from him, and looking him in the eye, “that you shouldn’t get so up-close and personal with strangers. You could get yourself hurt.” I winked at him and turned to walk away. I heard him let out a relaxed sigh and jog back up to walk beside me.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said with a smile. “Besides an angel like you couldn’t hurt a fly like me. So what do you like to drink?”
I stopped and turned to look him dead in the eye, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I know, your blood type is AB positive and you’re anemic,” I said matter-of-factly, “and you smell absolutely mouth-watering.” With that, I smiled a full, perfect, full fanged smile at him, and let him go. His mouth dropped open while he stared blankly in silence. “It was nice meeting you Sean,” I said and I turned and walked to my car.
He didn’t follow.
