Honey, in a Martha Stewart Kind of Way

Foray 008: Short Fiction Story

I’m honey in a Martha Stewart kind of way.

There’s no one else in this library. No one else except the student scrolling in the left corner and the raggedy man that just walked in. And the librarian, and the janitor. 

It feels very nice. I feel very safe. I have my notebook below my hands and I’m making swishy marks with my pencil. I rub them out until they’re ashy streaks on the page and my fingers are covered in black. I have to remember not to touch my eyes. 

One time I did and I looked crazy. I don’t look crazy now though. Now I look very very pretty. 

The raggedy man thinks so. I could see it in his eyes. He saw me between the stacks and stared. I didn’t like it but I stared right back. Even squared my shoulders. Imagine if I barked?

The thought was so funny that I started smiling. He saw it, goddamnit, and thought I was smiling at him. He’s so lucky I’ve learnt self-control. It took every ounce of it not to actually bark at him as he came closer.

God, what the actual fuck.

I stood up and grabbed my stuff. He stopped walking. 

There are five people in the library. Two are having a stand-off. My feet are planted hip-width apart, one fist balled, the other gripping my iPhone like a bludgeon. 

The student and janitor look up at us, then at each other. The librarian cleared her throat.

We were silent. My neck hurt. No one here knows each other.

I scooped up my stuff and walked to a table closer to the front. Next to the lady librarian. In her line of sight. Stupid of me to think I could’ve sat out of eyesight.

I need to learn not to look at people. They think I’m staring but really I’m just looking. Barely even watching. Wanting to register their faces, clothes, the funniness of their persons before they slip out of my life, never to be seen again.

Well, sometimes I see them again and that’s always so exciting. 

When the middle-aged woman with the grey and green outfit I saw walking her dog across the street last Monday, comes barrelling out of the grocery store the next week holding daffodils by their neck, I get giddy. 

Again, self restraint. I have to hold back my delight. 

Someone has to stop me from squealing and kicking my feet. I’ve learnt recently that that person has to be me. Fine, I can stop kicking. I can stop the squealing and leaping. 

But the looking? How can I stop the looking? I’m afraid it won’t ever go away.

And I know it’s getting me into trouble, more and more trouble. People come up to me, approach me, ask me for things. All my walks take a long time.

I draw a big eye in my notebook, then smudge the pupil in with my index finger. Big and black with carbon. I look up and see the librarian staring at me, so I smile. She smiles back then looks away. 

I wish people would follow my lead more. That’s the way to react to being looked at! A little rueful smile and everyone’s happy. I’m a good example.

I made a mistake. I needed a few white dots in the pupil, for that glimmer in the eye. I used my nail to scratch away some of the pigment. It worked.

It’s a bit of a drag you know. I wonder if they’re just so unused to being looked at. That makes me feel sad for them. Poor little guys. 

Once, I thought about giving one a hug. We were standing at a traffic light and I was staring at him. He looked bad, it was sad. I got almost halfway to full hug before he pulled away.

I’ve spent far too much time hugging for a 32 year old girl. Or too little. I guess it depends on how you look at it.

Like I said, I’m honey in a Martha Stewart kind of way.

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Thank you so much for reading!

This is the first short flash fiction story I’ve published on my Substack yet, I hope you enjoyed it.

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I hope June is treating you well.

Lots of love,

J xx