Inferno

thirteen | the confession

The steam wafting off the cappuccino in my hands, settles on the glass of my red frames. I don't usually wear specs, but sleep deprivation was more than apparent in the bags under my eyes, so I had to dig these out before I came to the reading. For the first time I was glad for my clumsiness, realising long back how I packed my mom's glasses when I came to Paris, but never got to returning them over my total of three visits in all these years to my hometown.

See, everything happens for a reason.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Callahan, it will just take a few more minutes," a voice sweeter than sugar cubes nestled in melted chocolate calls out, belonging to the owner of the store, Daisy Reece. One of Madrid's biggest book stores, Hernz was the perfect spot to make my diminishing public image relevant again, according to my manager. He usually just calls for checks, but when he saw my Instagram and all the posts and stories tagged with my tours all over Spain, he came up with an idea. A book reading.

I'm not sure how, but he scouted this single place where my old news of a novel had apparently not been sent by the publishing company. I didn't think the store would be interested until there was this whole banner made and everything to stick at the entrance with my name on it. They've also made a cute set up with a spin around chair in their little lounge area, vacated today, and space made for the public by adjusting the shelves where needed. Now that's a different story, that only half of them are occupied, probably because they didn't read the banner and are expecting some actual celebrity author coming to the store. At least, it's not as bruising to disappoint some five middle aged tourists who'd even be happy if they were offered a pack of coconut cookies to take along later. It's a mystery why those are a hit with people holidaying over here.

"We're ready for you," Daisy shouts from over the far end, only the carrot top of her orange streaked hair visible over the length of shelves where I've been sauntering.

"Alright," I muster a smile, dumping my crumpled coffee cup in the bin on my way to the cushioned red chair. It's got a head rest, so I'm not lamenting about this reading as much as I want to, adjusting my glasses before I pick up the book on the side. It's then that all the drowsiness fades away along with the stench of stale cookies in the air; my eyebrows quirking at the cover of the hard bound in my lap. "Daisy, this isn't—" I look up to find Daisy's no where near in sight, and all that's there is a suddenly risen audience, filling up the entire space and some more standing in anticipation. All of their eyes are on my shrinking figure, waiting for me to introduce the book I'm holding, that I have seen for the first time in life. Maybe second.

A couple uneasy looks on my left and right are of no help, and it looks like I will have to go with what's handed to me. Sure I could have got up and scouted some more, maybe pick a different one, but thanks to the spotlight I knew nothing of until now, that's shining on me and on a stack of the very same book arranged on a tea table beside me, it's impossible to take leave now. Plus, if I don't go through with this, my manager assured me I'd go bankrupt in a month's time. And that was, apparently, him being generous about my situation since he's into some positive therapy program at the moment.

"Let's begin, then. I'm Leia Callahan, novelist and media content writer, and today I'll be reading the first few pages of The Handmaid's tale, out of my sheer admiration for the author of the book." A look at the cover, particularly at the position the handmaid I assume has been shown to be in, and I feel the cappuccino work it's way back up my system. Flipping through the pages before the actual content begins, I come across a book mark, the baby pink paper strip sliding down to the fall of my sun dress. I pick it up, with half a mind to toss it away until realising there's writing on one side. Clutching it with my ink stained finger, I read on the message inscribed, "revenge is best served raunchy."