Wally left, though, I couldn't help but look into Michael's eyes and smile brightly.
He grinned, "You really did a presentation of Dante's Inferno out of clay?"
"Yep. It was one of my favorite projects too. I'm glad I could help Wally out."
"I'm glad you could to. I don't think he's ever thought of using clay for anything."
There was an awkward moment of silence and I was forced to look down at the table. Michael saw the book and raised a brow.
"Umberto Eco, eh? Barrow it, when you're done, bring it back and if you want it
I'll give you a fair price."
I quietly chuckled, "I already know I like it. I've read "The Name of the Rose" many times already." I smiled, "this is just an older copy of the one I have. I thought I would take advantage of your little nook while I was here."
"Oh, well, in that case," Michael grinned from ear to ear, "The price is on the inside cover."
"Fair enough." I giggled and handed him the money.
Michael chuckled and went to the counter. "Oh, by the way, I'm having a poetry reading Friday night. Some of the locals think themselves poets. You're more than welcome to attend and even perhaps share a poem or two."
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye with a slight smile. I couldn't speak, nor had any idea what to say. Fear had over taken me. Finally I sputtered, "Well, um, yeah, I can come, though I'm not sure about reading anything." I slowly made my way to the door.
"Good. Friday at 7pm and I hope you change your mind about sharing your poetry." He smiled.
I cringed as the bell shouted at the wooden frame of the door in protest. I quietly meandered down the street to the edge of town in a daze. Could I share my poetry? I had always thought of my poetry as a way of venting, of releasing those inner feelings when there was nothing else I could do. Could I share those with the rest of town; with Michael? I watched the sun set from behind the trees and I slowly let my mind go with it.
I stared at the clock in my room while the bold red numbers stared back. 6:15pm.
I flipped through my notebook and looked at my poetry. I had written plenty of poems since my arrival in Faith, but I wasn't sure I was ready to share any of them, especially with Michael there. I decided I start heading in the direction of Michael's nook. My stomach was in knots; worse then when I acted in high school. I was in a few plays, but never had a problem with acting. At least then I could be someone else and not worry about my insecurities getting in the way.
I looked up and found myself standing in front of the store. I took a deep breath and opened the door. I�m sure the bell jingled, but I was far too nervous to hear it. My focus was on the stage and the single microphone Michael had set up. It wasn't much. He arranged some small tables surround by two or three chairs each in front of the microphone. The store was dimly lit with a single light focused on the stage. Michael was talking to a woman I had yet to meet and didn't notice me until I sat at the table farthest from the stage. I looked around nervously. Wally was sitting at a table near the front quietly reading his poem over and over to himself.