Friday, May 1st Who: Grace Spencer and OPEN TO ANYONE ELSE What: Poetry Night When: Friday evening, 6pm, May 1st Where: The Well Fed Head Rating: Most likely only PG-13 Status: Incomplete
"Why is it you can stand on the counter and hand me tape when I ask for it, but you can't stand on another ladder and help me hang this banner?" Grace said and oofed as she smoothed down another section of the banner she'd had printed out. It ran high along all the walls of the bookstore, above the tallest bookcases, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
Gabe serenely handed her more tape. "The counter is not a ladder," he said patiently, as if it were very obvious, and Grace figured that to him, it was. "It's not all wobbly and unsteady. It's solid." He stomped a foot on the counter in demonstration. "The counter will not fold up on me unexpectedly."
"Well," Grace said with a little grunt, "I can't argue that, I suppose." She waved a hand at him and Gabe stuck loops of tape, sticky-side out, on her fingers.
He sat down and slid off the counter to hold the ladder steady for her as she finished taping, one bare foot on a ladder rung and the other on a bookshelf. "It looks good from my viewpoint," he said.
"Thanks," Grace said, and patted down the corner of the banner.
"And the banner looks nice, too," Gabe said, and Grace glanced down at him looking up at her, his grin bright and wicked. She stuck her tongue out at him and climbed down, his hands around her thighs and waist as she did so.
"That would've sounded much more lecherous if I'd worn a skirt today," she said, and he released her and stepped back as she hopped off the ladder and straightened her sweater and trousers.
"Pssht. You'd think there was something wrong with me if I didn't make a comment like that," Gabe replied.
"Probably, yes," Grace said, and slipped on her shoes as Gabe folded the ladder and hefted it to carry back to their workroom. "Do you think we have enough sodas and sandwiches for Alex and his bandmates? I promised them food as payment for playing tonight."
"Probably, though there might be one less sandwich than before. And maybe one less Coke." Gabe's voice sounded muffled from the back. "But you've got enough to feed an army, so."
"They're teenaged guys. You remember what that's like," Grace said. "It hasn't been that long since you were one. I remember how much you ate. Still eat," Grace amended, picking up the tape and a large sheet she'd had printed out at the same time as the banner.
Going over to the large front window, she taped it in a prominent place so that it could be easily seen by people on the street. It said:
I am only one, But still I am one. I cannot do everything, But still I can do something; And because I cannot do everything I will not refuse to do the something that I can do. --Edward Everett
Gabe came over to stand beside her, munching on one of the cookies she'd made for the evening. "I like that," he said, nodding to the poster. "A small, quiet declaration of intent."
"A less aggressive I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take this anymore," Grace agreed. "I printed out enough that other shopkeepers I've talked with and who are willing to speak up can have one. We've finally got a lawyer who's interested in our case, so hopefully, things can start moving."
Gabe's hand rested on her shoulder, a quiet gesture of solidarity, and Grace smiled up at him, then looked toward the door when the bell above it tinkled, announcing a possible customer.