March 12th, 2025
Agnes Periwinkle, bless her black cotton knee socks, was a connoisseur of chaos. Not the dramatic, operatic kind, mind you. Agnes preferred the subtle, simmering variety that bubbled beneath the surface of polite society, threatening to spill over and scald unsuspecting ankles. And Agnes, having spent her formative years licking love off knives (as that poet lady so eloquently put it), knew exactly how to stir the pot.
Her childhood had been…unconventional. The Periwinkle family motto should have been “Self-sufficiency through passive aggression.” Affection was dispensed sparingly, often wrapped in barbed wire and laced with a healthy dose of guilt. So, Agnes learned early on that love was a scavenger hunt, a puzzle to be solved, a particularly thorny rose to be painstakingly deflowered.
This translated into a dating life that could best be described as “performance art.” Her first serious boyfriend, Bartholomew, was a tax attorney with a penchant for reciting tax codes during intimate moments. Agnes, instead of running screaming, found it…endearing. She genuinely believed that Bartholomew’s deadpan delivery of Section 179 deductions was his bizarre way of saying, “I love you.”
Then there was Cecil, the aspiring (and perpetually failing) magician. Cecil’s love language was disappearing acts. He’d vanish mid-date, only to reappear hours later with a flimsy excuse and a wilted daisy. Agnes, of course, bought it every time. She even started carrying a first aid kit, convinced his disappearing acts were less magic and more poorly planned attempts to escape through ventilation shafts.
Her friends, bless their bewildered hearts, tried to intervene. “Agnes, darling, he’s emotionally unavailable,” her friend Penelope, a woman who used crystals to align her chakras and probably talked to squirrels, would say. “You deserve someone who doesn’t treat you like a volunteer in his amateur magic show!”
Agnes would smile, that knowing, slightly unsettling smile that suggested she knew something Penelope didn’t. And in a way, she did. Penelope, raised on a silver spoon of sunshine and rainbows, wouldn’t understand the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of deciphering a love language spoken entirely in riddles and disappearing smoke.
Her professional life was no less…interesting. Agnes worked as a librarian, a profession that, on the surface, seemed utterly devoid of chaos. But Agnes, with her uncanny ability to attract the bizarre, had transformed the quiet Dewey Decimal System into a breeding ground for eccentric encounters.
There was Old Man Fitzwilliam, who was convinced the library was a secret portal to Atlantis and tried to return overdue books to the sea. Mrs. Higgins, who believed the novels were whispering secrets to her, demanded Agnes rotate them to prevent them from gossiping.
Rather than dismissing them as loonies, Agnes engaged with their delusions with the earnestness of a method actor. She’d help Old Man Fitzwilliam decipher the “aquatic hieroglyphs” on the spines of the books and politely explain to Mrs. Higgins that the novels were simply sharing plot details, not salacious gossip about the other books.
One day, a new patron walked into the library. His name was Arthur, and he was…normal. Utterly, devastatingly normal. He wore sensible shoes, spoke in complete sentences, and actually returned his books on time. Agnes was, to put it mildly, flummoxed.
Arthur asked for recommendations on historical fiction. Agnes, usually prepared with a list of obscure titles and conspiracy theories, stammered. She suggested a book about the Tudors, then immediately regretted it. The Tudors were practically tame compared to the cast of characters she usually attracted.
Arthur, however, seemed genuinely interested. He smiled a genuine, non-tax-code-related smile and thanked her. Over the next few weeks, Arthur became a regular. They discussed books, history, and the surprisingly cutthroat world of competitive vegetable gardening.
Agnes started to feel…uncomfortable. This was new territory. Arthur’s affection wasn’t hidden in a coded message or a disappearing act. He…liked her. He liked her quirky sense of humour, her encyclopedic knowledge of obscure historical facts, and even her uncanny ability to attract the bizarre.
One afternoon, Arthur asked her out for coffee. Agnes panicked and almost invented a sudden outbreak of book-borne illness. But then she stopped. She looked at Arthur, his kind eyes and sensible shoes, and realized something.
Maybe, just maybe, she was tired of licking love off knives. Perhaps she was ready for a cup of coffee, a conversation that didn’t involve tax codes or disappearing acts, and a love that didn’t come with a side of emotional shrapnel.
She said yes.
The date was…pleasant. There were no explosions, no disappearing rabbits, and no mentions of Section 179 deductions. Just two people talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company.
As Arthur walked her home, he stopped in front of her door. “Agnes,” he said, his voice sincere, “I really enjoyed tonight.”
Agnes, bracing herself for a disappearing act or a tax code recital, was pleasantly surprised when Arthur leaned in and kissed her. It was a gentle, uncomplicated kiss that tasted coffee and quiet contentment.
Agnes walked inside, a dazed look on her face. She looked around her apartment, at the shelves filled with obscure books and the collection of slightly disturbing porcelain dolls she’d inherited from her great-aunt.
Maybe, she thought, licking love off knives had taught her how to survive. But maybe, just perhaps, it was time to learn how to bloom. And maybe Arthur, with his sensible shoes and genuine smile, was just the gardener she needed. She smiled. The chaos, she suspected, wasn’t going anywhere. But for the first time in a long time, it felt…manageable. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit lovely.
