Yellow Pages

Some people welcome me openly. They throw open their life-stricken arms, and greet me like an old friend. Then there are those other ones, the ones who are filled to the brim, teeming with life and love and lungs. I like those people. When I meet their souls on the final page of their lives, I hold them for just one second. I can feel everything they felt in their last moments, the rush and sudden realization that this is the end, the thought of what lies beyond. It makes me feel almost human. I am amused by what some of you think I am. A hooded figure, a skeletal enigma, coming to end what is rightfully and lawfully yours. I'm none of those things. Honestly. I'm sorry, if nothing else. I try to apologize with what little words I find comforting, try to tell you that it's nothing I have against you personally. It's just my wretched, tiring job. But I remember every one of the humans whose souls I have carried in the crook of my bloodless arm. 

Especially the following humans, who stand out to me like a red stain on a white canvas of people. I will tell your their story now. 

A while back, after I had finished a long period of never-ending work(it never really stops, but I am occasionally faced with times of some rest, where I take the time to learn your stories), I visited a city. I can't recall what city it was, for you humans have far too many of them, and I am exhausted. But I remember it vividly, because I saw a girl there. The day was grey like the rain. It was windy, and I gathered that it was cold, because she wrapped her sun- colored scarf around her neck. Her hair was light brown and curly, like little wood shavings.

Then came the book. She was reading a book. Completely engrossed in it. I watched her for a bit, as she turned each sparkling white page, unfurling new words and thoughts. It was a new book, fresh from its creator. It was pleasing to watch her, but it was also a little sad. She looked lonely, sitting by the fountain in the center of the town, with only the words as companions. But maybe she wasn't all that lonely. I hope she wasn't.

Over the course of the next few days, I continued to observe her. She made more progress on the book, until one day she was done with it. She had reached the end of the white cloud-colored pages. I watched intently, seeing  what she would do next. Picking up the book, she dropped from her perch on the fountain and walked along the cobblestones, past the little shops selling clothes and the cafes serving baguettes and coffee. Her stride was full of confidence, and her legs told me they were going someplace important. 

I felt the pull of my job. Somebody had fell to the cold ground with a whisper in Spain. Someone else had slipped away in their sleep. More helpless souls, needing me to carry them away from this life and into the next. But this girl. This lovely girl with the scarf and book was twirling into a side alley, and I caught a glimpse of her long, grey coat vanishing into the alley along with her. I followed her. The dying humans could wait.

The girl was making her way towards a little shop on a small street behind the slick alley. Through the smudged windows of the place, I could see books and papers piled high, haphazardly piled on top of each other like crumbling houses. A soft light coming from the window filled the dark and cold alley with a welcome breath of warmth. It had sign above the door that was painted blue like the summer sky, and the letters of the wording were elegant and graceful, but old and fading. "Bouvier's Books". 

The rusty bell hugging the door tinkled like soft rain as she pushed open the door. She stepped lightly over the chubby black cat unwinding on the worn wooden floorboards. A young man, the owner's apprentice, was sliding books into uniform order on a partially empty bookshelf, and glanced up at the sound of the chime. His face was pale like the moon against the night sky, and his eyes were bright but strained from scrutinizing the endless book titles and little ink-printed letters. In desperate need of proving himself useful to customers, he sat down the stack of books on top of the shelf, and strolled over to the girl the door swept in.