“I was already planning on going with you.” Dean tells me, a confused look on his face. “Why wouldn’t I go?”
“You got shit-faced at the first one.”
“That’s because I was anticipating seeing my ex-girlfriend at my mother’s house the next day. I can keep it together this time around.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Dean assures me.
“Now let’s get out of here,” I announce, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves. Dean and I return our mugs to the front counter before leaving back into the cold. The bookstore is a good ten-minute walk away, and it’s certain to feel longer because of how cold it is.
When we step back outside, I can’t help but shiver.
“Oh, lord, fuck, it’s cold.” I whisper to myself, trying to tie my scarf tighter around my face, but my fingers are already so cold it’s hard to do. The wind has certainly picked up from the last time we were outside, and the scarf gets whipped around. It nearly escapes my grip. “And windy.”
“Here, let me.” Dean turns to stand in front of me, catching both ends of the scarf in his gloved hands. He stretches it out and wraps it tightly around my mouth and nose, which is already starting to run, tying it in a perfect knot in the front. I say thank you, but it comes out muffled because of the layers of fabric now around my face. He nods back politely, like this isn’t the kindest thing he’s ever done for me.
We walk briskly, and I’m thankful the sidewalks are shoveled widely and ice-free. The bookstore isn’t so much a bookstore as it is a discount book warehouse. When we enter, we’re greeted with rows of shelves and bins filled to the brim with books of all kinds—picture books, chapter books, periodicals,encyclopedias, trade paperbacks, you name it, it’s here. I’m instantly overwhelmed by the smell of old and damp paper, but Dean seems to be in his happy place once more. He walks ahead of me, settling in front of a large cardboard box labeled “40% off”.
I wander up and down the aisles, not particularly enthralled or interested with my choices, until I settle back by Dean, digging through another discount bin labeled “40% off” for perhaps any hidden treasure. Dean roots through the discount bin, and suddenly stops to pick up a book with a cartoon man on the cover, clutching his head.
“Hey, this is perfect for you,” He shows me the book. “Help me, I’m a hypochondriac.” Dean reads aloud for me.
“Very fitting,” I roll my eyes, rooting through my own bin, looking for something I can dunk on him with. Then, I find it. “Ah, here. You might want this,” I giggle, holding up a book about puberty aimed at preteen boys.
“I need help with what’s going on down there?” He laughs reading from the cover, and takes it from my hands, squinting to read the back cover. “I think I know what’s going on down there.”
“Are you sure about that?” I laugh. “You look like you might need some help.”
Dean flips through the book, skimming the pages. “No, I think I’m good.” He says shortly, and hands the book to me. I open it, skimming through the pages as well. It takes everything in me not to laugh, because while the drawings might seem silly to me now, I know this is a very serious topic for preteen boys.
“Chapter 2. Why do my balls shrivel up and get smaller when I’m cold?” I ask, reading from a Q&A section. “It’s cold, yes? Are your balls shriveled right now, Dean?”
“Put that back,” Dean says to me. “I’m getting second-hand embarrassment from you.”
“Chapter 3. What if I get my penis caught in my zipper?” I laugh maniacally. “Are these real concerns men have?”
“Maybe if you’re like, ten years old,” Dean says absentmindedly, thumbing through his bin again, ignoring my giggles.
“Chapter four,” I trail off and laugh to myself at the fact the page with a cartoonishly hand-drawn penile diagram has a corner folded over, like it’s book-marked for later reference. “Look here, it says smaller penises work just as well as larger ones.”
“How would you know that?” Dean looks up.
“It says it right here.” I point to the book.
“It does not say that,” Dean looks at me incredulously.
He abandons his box of discount books to look over my shoulder.
“It says it right here,” I point to the line in the second paragraph at the top of the page.
Dean pauses while he reads the page, and then he pulls the book from my hands, refusing to believe that’s what it actually says.
“I feel like there’s a small penis joke forming in my brain right now.” I laugh, gesturing to my head, like the gears are turning. “The hamsters are running.”
“You don’t need to be looking at this.” Dean buries the book in the back of his discount bin, as if I couldn’t just pull it back up again. “You don’t need to know how well penises of any size work. Or if my balls are shriveled right now.”
“Why not?” I laugh again, returning to my bin, on the hunt for another book with dirty, anatomically correct imagery. “Would you like it better if I found a smutty novel to read instead?” I pull up a paper back with a saucy clinch cover, suggesting it to him.
