What He Taught Me

The Hours Between

unlocked the front door of the bookstore at nine and stepped into the familiar quiet. The smell of paper and coffee settled around me the way it always did, but today it felt distant. My mind was still stuck in the living room from the night before, replaying Marcus’s voice and the careful way he had explained things I had never thought about so directly.

I turned on the lights and started the opening tasks without thinking. Unlock the register. Check the delivery boxes near the back. Wipe down the counter. The motions were automatic. My body moved through them while my thoughts stayed somewhere else entirely.

The first customer came in at nine fifteen, an older woman looking for a specific mystery novel. I found it for her, smiled, rang up the sale, and handed her the bag. She thanked me and left. I barely remembered what she looked like once the door closed behind her.

I kept seeing Marcus standing near the armchair, arms loosely crossed, speaking in that calm, precise tone. The body responds to attention before it responds to pressure. Stay with the light touch longer than feels natural. I had listened to every word. I had nodded. I had asked questions when I did not understand. And then he had sent me upstairs with clear instructions not to practice yet.

The waiting was harder than I expected.

I shelved a new shipment of paperbacks, alphabetizing by author, and caught myself staring at the same spine for almost a minute without moving. My coworker Lena arrived at ten and gave me a quick smile.

“You look tired,” she said, tying her apron. “Late night?”

“Something like that,” I answered. I kept my voice light and turned back to the shelf so she would not ask more.

The morning stretched. Customers came and went. I recommended books. I answered questions about store hours. I restocked the bookmark display near the front. None of it held my attention for long. Every time the door opened I felt a small, irrational jolt, as if Marcus might walk in even though I knew he was at work across town.

At lunch I sat in the small break room with a sandwich I barely tasted. My phone sat on the table beside me. No messages. I had not expected any. Marcus was not the type to text during the day unless something was necessary. Still, I checked the screen twice before putting the phone away.

I thought about the manuscript again. The careful handwriting. The detailed sections I had tried to follow on my own. The flat, frustrating nothing that had followed. And then the way Marcus had listened without judgment when I told him. The memory of his eyes on me while I described what I had done still made my face warm.

I finished the sandwich out of habit and went back to the floor.

The afternoon was busier. A small group of students came in looking for used textbooks. A man spent twenty minutes asking about local authors. A mother and young child browsed the picture book section while I helped another customer find a gardening guide. I smiled. I answered. I kept my hands busy. Underneath it all the same low restlessness kept pulling at me.

By three o’clock I was counting the hours until six. Marcus had said he would be home by then. We would continue. The next step after last night’s verbal instructions. I did not know exactly what he planned, only that he expected me to be ready and clear headed.

I wondered if he had thought about the conversation at all during his meetings. Probably not the way I had. He had spoken like someone who could put the topic away when he needed to. I clearly could not.

Lena noticed my distraction again around four.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked while we restocked the new releases table. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

“Just didn’t sleep well,” I said. It was true enough.

She accepted the answer and moved on. I was grateful.

The last hour of my shift crawled. I kept glancing at the clock above the register. Five fifteen. Five thirty. Five forty five. When six finally came I closed out my drawer, said goodbye to Lena, and stepped outside into the early evening air.

The walk home took twelve minutes. I spent every one of them trying to steady my breathing. The house came into view at the end of the street. Marcus’s car was already in the driveway. A light was on in the kitchen window.

I paused on the sidewalk for a second longer than necessary. My pulse had picked up. I adjusted the strap of my bag and walked the rest of the way to the front door.

Inside, the smell of coffee and something savory met me. Marcus stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pan. He glanced over when he heard the door.

“You’re right on time,” he said.

“Bookstore closed at six.”

He nodded once and turned back to the stove. “Eat first. Then we continue.”

I set my bag down and washed my hands at the sink. The ordinary domestic motions felt strange against the awareness of what was coming. We ate at the counter in relative silence. He asked about the store. I gave short answers. Neither of us mentioned the real reason the air in the kitchen felt heavier than usual.

When the bowls were empty he rinsed them and dried his hands.

“Living room,” he said. “Same place as last night.”

I followed him. My legs felt steady but my heartbeat did not. He waited until I sat on the couch before he spoke again.

“Last night was information only,” he said. “Tonight you will apply it. Slowly. With me watching to make sure you understand. No rushing. If something feels unclear you stop and tell me. Understood?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

Marcus pulled the armchair slightly closer and sat down. His expression was focused, calm, and completely serious.

“All right,” he said quietly. “We begin.”