Narrative-Ophelia

I have got to get home to find out if he lives. I check my GPS watch, five miles in. Just one more to go. My feet hit the pavement and my breathing is steady but strained. Running is second nature to me. Dad always said that I was born running, which of course is preposterous but a nice thought. My street is just around the corner and I can see the glowing sign of Published, my father’s bookstore, pub, coffee shop, concert venue hybrid monster. “Ophelia!” Mrs. Humphrey waves at me from her open window as I pass. Slowing my pace I jog over to where the older woman was leaning out the window watering the scattered plants in the planter. She is using her long reach kitchen faucet from the sink by the window. Mrs. Humphrey is older,
“Pretty good.” I reply over the band who had just picked up into a popular chorus that everyone was now singing along to. A customer comes up to the register with a handful of books. Noticing that Dad is busy at the bar, I slide behind the counter and quickly ring up the titles. It’s mostly older stuff and quite a lot of poetry. “Heany’s rather good.” I point to the copy of North the man is holding. The man nods and shoulders the books. He waves to dad and exits, the bells on the door ring as it shuts behind him. I check around to make sure that Dad doesn’t need anymore help and then I start for stairs that lead to the small apartment Dad and I share above Published. My room is on the first door on the left and I open the door and collapse onto my bed. The white duvet fans out like clouds and I grab Mrs. Humphrey’s book. It falls open to where my bookmark held my spot. Sighing I bury myself into my blankets and kick my running shoes across the room. They land with a thud, but I’m already far away. The next hours are a blur and my eyes glaze over as I slowly forget that the words I am reading are just that and not the rolling film in my head. Good news, Pietro lived. Bad news, he doesn’t remember