No Reason Why

Holden

When Dina and I collided in front of the library, it was a complete accident that I picked up one of her books. I discovered the error once I got home and wasn’t sure how to rectify the situation other than returning it, but once Julie called, I knew it was my chance to see Dina again.

I assumed she’d be angry about my faux pas, but as I walk up the stairs to the reading terrace to find a soaking wet Dina speaking into her purse, I regret my decision. This was a terrible mistake.

Of all the things I could greet her with—an apology, a simple hello, or a kind word—I blurt, “Is your dog wearing a raincoat?”

The furry imp is poking his head out of his purse with a yellow hood on, accentuating his angry eyebrows. Evidently Dina hasn’t learned her lesson to keep the bag fully zipped.

“It’s raining out, Dickens. Or did you not notice?” She takes in my appearance, likely realizing that I’m dry.

“No, I noticed. That’s why I took a taxi. You walked in this?”

“Yes, I walked in this.” She waves her hand to show the storm raging outside. “A taxi isn’t an option.”

I’m not sure if that’s on account of the angry creature under her arm or some other reason, but I don’t ask. Something tells me I’d end up with an encyclopedia thrown at my head. “I didn’t look at the forecast.”

“Really? The way our encounters have gone so far, I assumed you were just trying to make my life miserable. Give me my book so I can get back home into dry clothing.”

Call me a masochist, but getting this woman riled up is becoming my new favourite hobby. Granted, my only hobbies are studying or hanging out with the same best friends I’ve had since childhood.

“No manners?” I gesture toward the window and see the rain slanting from the blowing wind off of Lake Ontario. “Besides, you can’t walk home in that. Think of poor Cuj—Nacho.”

“Do people need to use manners to have something returned from a thief? You stole from me and I have to say please? I don’t think so, Dickens. Give. Me. My. Book. And as for what I can and cannot do, you don’t get a say in that.” She’s getting feistier by the second. Her dark eyes are wild with determination.

“How about this?” I sit down on a vinyl, armless sofa and throw my feet up on the adjacent coffee table littered with magazines. “Why don’t you pick a book for me to read? Anything you want, and I promise I’ll read it.”

For a split second, her face relaxes. That offers me a glimmer of hope until she speaks. “Get your own book. I’m not here to play out some weird librarian fetish or whatever this is. I just want to get the book and leave.” She pauses for a second. “Please.”

I’m surprised she gave in and used her manners. I almost feel bad for pushing her to that point. Almost. “Bring me a book, and I’ll give you yours.” I smirk. “Please.”

She grumbles, which makes Nacho growl in his low, menacing way that makes you feel like he’s about to morph into some fantasy sci-fi creature and take over mankind. I might be reading too much into it, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Fine.” She doesn’t spare me a glance before she stomps off.

While I wait, I open my backpack and pull out the book that set this meeting in motion: The Cracked Curtain. It makes me think of our discussion from the last time we were here and wonder if there is, in fact, a cracked curtain in the story. I flip through it and get sucked into reading a few pages, where, sure enough, there’s a shady old lady who spies on her neighbours through her tattered old curtains. Then I hear a throat clearing.

I raise my eyes from the book to find Dina standing over me with a book that is better described as a brick.

“Here.” She hands me a copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, no hint of amusement on her face. “This should keep you busy.”

I grab the faded hardcover monstrosity with two hands. “Indeed. Of all the choices, this is what you picked? Why not Proust?”

“Well, In Search of Lost Time comes in seven volumes, so it was this or You Forgot Your Manners, Tales of the Grumpy Octopus. You obviously haven’t read that one.”

I laugh, again receiving looks from nearby library patrons. “Most people find me delightful.”

She stares at me for a second, then puts out her hand and gestures toward her novel with her eyes. “Book.”

I’m a man of my word, so I hand her the cliche thriller. “You sure you don’t want The Naughty Pirate?”

“Maybe I’ve already read it.” She raises her dark eyebrow and for a second, she takes on a playful demeanour. It’s gone just as fast as it arrives. “See ya never, Dickens.” Then she’s off toward the stairs.

“Dina, wait.” I jump up out of my seat and walk in her direction, carrying the massive 1,200 page novel. “Does this mean war or peace?” I hope she understands I’m referring to the dynamic between us and not the piece of Russian literature.

“Mess with my books again and the Battle of Borodino will look like a picnic. Your choice.”

Yep. She understands. But I never did find picnics very exciting.

I return home once the rain lets up, so I am able to walk. The entire way, I question Dina’s thinly veiled threat, curious what kind of battle plan she’d implement. No doubt she’d use Nacho as her Lieutenant-General. Assuming he passed the psych testing.

I change into dry track pants and a T-shirt, preparing to spend the afternoon reading this massive book that will take the better part of the three-week checkout window to finish. For what purpose? I don’t know. Dina and I haven’t run into each other before, so chances of seeing her again are slim, but if I do, I want to be able to say I kept my word. Plus, maybe it will spark some inspiration for my dissertation. My plan for my thesis is to research the impact of the industrial revolution on gender roles. There were defined roles in the early 1800s, so this book could help spark some baseline ideas to dive deeper into. It’s far more useful than a grumpy octopus.

The book is heavy and awkward to hold in the early pages. I consider myself a fast reader, but this mammoth of a novel is one where, instead of turning a page and getting involved in the story, you realize there are still 1136 pages to go. An hour in, my phone buzzes, which is a perfect excuse for a break.

Sam: Bro, you busy?

When either of my best friends message me something like this, it’s almost always because they’ve got a gig they want my input on or they’re having woman trouble. Both areas, I do not consider myself an expert, but I’m not the type to leave the guys I’ve known since kindergarten high and dry.

Holden: Studying.

That’s a semi-truth at best, but explaining the reality is too involved.

Sam: Always. You need a break. I’ve got a gig booked tomorrow. Can you look at my set list?

Michael, my childhood best friend, is a musician, whose stage name is Two Dollar $am. For that reason, we’ve called him Sam for as long as I can remember. It’s because of him that I learned to use music to escape when my brain feels overloaded. He’s always had my back. The least I can do is give him a thumbs up on his song choices.

Holden: Sure, man. Be there in twenty.

I change back into more suitable clothing and head west toward Sam and Phil’s place, which is just over a kilometre down King Street.

The entire walk, all I can think about, is how my exams start in eleven weeks, and the trajectory of my future depends on them. My focus has been jolted from where it should be, and by wasting the rest of my day, I’m not doing myself any favours. I need to zero in my focus on comparative, transnational, and global history, which is the topic of study I chose for my first exam. Eleven plus weeks might seem like a lot of study time, but the thing with history is, there’s no shortage of information to cover.

So much of society’s past is set in stone—literally, if we’re talking about hieroglyphics—but our understanding is also ever-evolving. It’s fascinating and we learn so much about our present and future by analyzing the past. That’s what makes it easy for me to develop tunnel vision every time I open a scholarly journal or textbook.

Except, my tunnel has been infiltrated by deep brown eyes and curly hair.

Today, as I weave through foot traffic along King Street, all I can focus on is whether I’m in a state of war or peace with a spunky bookworm and her persnickety dog. For once in the lifetime of our friendship, I hope my best friends can return the favour when it comes to advice on women, because Dina is a riddle I want to figure out.

With history, sometimes the real answers come from piecing together facts and drawing the most logical conclusion. With Dina, I have a feeling she’ll be a harder mystery to solve than Cleopatra’s tomb.