Paper Hearts & Other Disasters

I stand outside the bookshop fumbling for my keys. Stepping into the shop, a gust of Glasgow wind sweeps over me, cold, damp and a faint smell of wet pavement. The windows are fogged from yesterday’s downpour, and the air inside holds that familiar scent of old paper, dust and the aroma of a cinnamon candle long burned out.

            Staring up at me from the counter like a cat about to pounce on its unsuspecting victim, is the latest electricity bill. As if laughing at me, the lights flicker on and I cup my head in my hands leaning against the counter. I glance at the bill, hoping the numbers would somehow change but they don't. They just glare up at me, bold and unapologetic. Gran’s teacup sits beside the till; its floral pattern chipped at the rim. Touching it lightly, almost as if greeting an old friend, a wry smile crosses my face, and I give my head a little shake. It has been kept here for years with Gran insisting it makes the place feel cosy and welcoming. Now it feels like a glaring reminder of everything I am trying not to lose.

            Tonight’s event is something recommended to me to help raise some much-needed money. Speed dating. The tables are neatly stacked against the wall, waiting. I pull them out, arranging them in pairs, with a seat at either side. The legs scrape softly against the wooden floor echoing in the quiet shop. For twenty years, Thistle and Cover has been in my family and now here I am, trying to keep my family’s business and only source of income going by hosting date nights in the age of online dating. I smooth the tablecloths, straightening the candles and adjusting the chairs until everything is sitting at perfect angles. I feel like I am preparing for my own date. Too busy fussing over everything, pinning too much hope on the small, unnecessary details.

            Outside, the steady rhythm of tapping against the windows alerts me the rain has started. Typical Scottish weather, all four seasons in one day. No one will want to come out in this weather. Inside, the candles flicker as I light them, their flames trembling like nervous hearts. Stepping back, I take in my bookshop. Not small, but not Waterstones big. The walls are lined with all kinds of stories from your crime drama to non-fiction. I move some furniture around to make space for the tables and the room staring back at me looks warm. Inviting. Almost magical.

           The chalkboard sign outside, fighting against the rain, has the words 'Find someone who loves Austen as much as you do' next to what used to be a heart, now looking more like a badly drawn potato. I consider re-drawing it but imperfections are supposed to be good and sort of charming. Much like me, much like my shop. Gran would say I’m always being too hard on myself, but I prefer a realist. Who’s to say who’s right these days.

            The first arrival is early. A woman in a beige scarf, a long white expensive looking coat, her expression sharp enough to slice right through me. Pausing at the doorway, her eyes focusing on the tables and the carefully arranged stack of romance novels, she turns to me, tightening her mouth like she’d just tasted something sour.

            'Is this the poetry workshop?' she asks, rather unpleasantly.

            'No, that’s next week. Speed-dating tonight,' I say, as cheerfully as I can.

            Acting as if I’ve just told her horrible news, the woman spins on her heels, leaving and muttering something like ‘Absolutely not’ as the bell jingles weakly with the closing door. I check the time and it’s half an hour to the event starting. Plenty of time for people to arrive and get comfortable. Or no one to show at all. I straighten a stack of books that don't need the attention, and the candles flicker as if trying to reassure me. Nice try. Epic fail.

            The next arrival is almost thrown in the shop with the gust of wind following him in. His cheeks are flushed and hair a mess suggesting he’s fighting a losing battle against the Glasgow weather. Catching his breath, he looks around the room. Candles. The tables. The weird heart shaped sign visible from the window. His expression changes from confusion to outright horror.

            'Oh no. I’m in the wrong place. This isn’t the poetry workshop, is it?' he asks, closing his eyes as if willing the universe to take him out of here.

           'Yeah, that’s next week. You’re not the first to make that mistake. But you’re welcome to stay if you’d like. Tonight’s speed dating.'

            He opens his eyes again, looking as if he wants to run, but he stays out of sheer politeness. He taps his fingers nervously on his bag. ‘I’m Jamie,’ he says as though to avoid this unusual brand of chaos he’s found himself in.

            'Amelia,’ I say. ‘And honestly, you’re welcome to stay. We’re… kinda short on numbers.'

            ‘How short,’ Jamie asks, half laughing.

            ‘You’d make ten. If everyone shows up who put their name down,’ I say, smiling.

            Jamie nods and lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. By the time the event starts, six participants are standing around the tables, awkwardly glancing around each other. Probably wondering how on earth they got here by the looks on their faces. They settle in their seats, as if terrified something awful will happen. I ring the small bell I found in a charity shop, to indicate the start of the ‘date’ and when people can move seats. Its chime almost seems hopeful to me, delicate. Everyone shifts, bracing themselves as they sit across from their first date.

            Jamie sits opposite a woman whose nails are long enough to double as weapons, and I giggle to myself quietly. She leans forward immediately and launches into a very enthusiastic explanation of her cat’s dietary restrictions and how he keeps her up most of the night. She moves her hands wildly and animatedly, cutting through the air. Jamie nods politely, a slight panicked expression on his face, as if he has no idea his Thursday evening would include so much information about a stranger's cat's eating habits. He glances towards me, a silent plea in his eyes, but I pretend not to see it. Mainly because I don’t know how to help. I already explained each date will last five minutes and to change at the sound of the bell. If he is lucky, two minutes have passed now. Only three more to go, Jamie.

            The next rotation has him across from a woman who speaks so softly, he is the one leaning in this time. Elbows on the table, brow furrowed in concentration. He whispers back and she nods solemnly. Their conversation seems more like a serious business meeting than speed-dating. The candle flickers between them, as if trying to join in and provide a much-needed spark. I move around the room, adjusting the candles, straightening books and overall pretending to be busy while keeping an eye on everything. I keep the bell with me and reset the timer on my phone for the third rotation for everyone to meet their dates. Their expressions range from confusion, mild despair, cautious optimism and curiosity. A spectrum of human emotions all unfolding beneath the warm glow of my flickering candles.

            And then the dog arrives.

            The door slams open with a force that makes the bell shriek. All I see is a blur of fur shoot past me, skidding across the wooden floor with a bundle of chaotic energy. The terrier, small, scruffy, eyes almost bright with mischief, barrels between tables, romance books flying off the tables and tumbling like dominoes. Paper hearts flutter in the air, raining down like confetti at a wedding no one had planned.

            ‘Oh for... Baxter!’ a voice shouts from outside.

            Everyone inside the shop freezes, including myself. Jamie is caught off guard as the dog launches itself into his lap, paws on his chest, tail wagging enthusiastically. Jamie flails, arms outstretched, trying to balance the dangerously tipping chair. The dog licks his face with so much energy, and I hear a slight ‘help’ escape from Jamie mixed with laugh and fear.

            ‘Sorry! Sorry! He loves bookshops!' A man appears in the doorway, breathless, apologetic and holding a snapped lead.

            The man tries to get his dog off Jamie. But he ignores him, too busy smothering Jamie with only the kind of adoration a dog can give. The room erupts, not in panic but in laughter. Soft at first, then growing louder as if releasing the tension out of the room and through the open door. Chaos, it turns out, is exactly what the event needs. The man eventually gets Baxter off of Jamie and lifts him up. The bundle of energy enjoys some well deserved claps from everyone before they leave. Baxter's owner apologises repeatedly as he closes the door.

            When the final rotation happens, one seat remains empty. Someone must have decided to call it a night among the chaos of our unexpected gust. Jamie gestures towards me to take the empty chair. I hesitate before sitting opposite him. Exhaling slowly, he braces himself, probably expecting me to give him my own cat monologue or another dog attack.

            ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

            He wipes his face with a tissue he’s pulling out of his bag, smiling. ‘I’ve had worse first dates.'

            ‘That wasn’t a date,' I say, laughing.

            ‘Even better,' he says, chuckling.

            The room hums with the murmur of conversations; the other participants engaged in their dates. The rustle of pages as romance novels gets some attention and the distant bark from the terrier, now safely held by its owner. Jamie’s gaze drifts to the shelves behind me, lingering on the classics section. His fingers brush against the spine of a battered Pride and Prejudice lying on the table, left behind by a previous participant.

            ‘You like that one?’ I ask.

            He nods. ‘It’s dramatic. And the relationship between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy is certainly an interesting one. Probably my favourite Jane Austen novel.'

            I feel a small, warm spark in my chest. ‘Yeah, it is definitely one of my favourites.'

            Jamie smiles and something in the air shifts, subtle but unmistakeable.

            When the event ends, the participants begin to drift out into the night, some exchanging shy smiles. Others clutching their jackets against the cold, autumn night. The shop feels softer in the aftermath. Candlelight low, tables slightly askew and paper hearts scattered like a reminder of celebrations. Jamie lingers nearby, sorting his bag and jacket. I’ve already seen him fix it a couple of times now. He moves through the room with an unhurried walk, gathering some stray chairs and stacking them neatly. I join him, our movements quietly synchronised. Our hands brush while reaching out for the same candle; a small spark leaps between us, unexpected, warm.

            He pauses by the window, staring at the chalkboard sign outside. Studying the weird heart-shape with a small tilt of his head. ‘It’s charming.'

            ‘That’s one word for it,' I say, half embarrassed.

            ‘I could help, you know. With posters. Signs. Anything. I’m a graphic designer.'

            ‘I can’t really afford...’

            'Free of charge,' he says quickly. 'Consider it… community service. For crimes against poetry workshops.'

            I laugh and nod my head in agreement. He picks up his bag and moves towards the door, hesitating when he reaches it, almost shifting his weight.

            ‘I had a really nice time tonight.' He turns and smiles.

            ‘Even with the dog attack?’ I say, surprised.

            'Especially with the dog attack,' he says, looking at me so intensely, then continues, 'Maybe we could… grab a coffee sometime?'

            I feel my smile appearing on my face before I realise I’m doing it. ‘I’d like that.'

            Jamie beams at me, gives a small wave and disappears into the night. After he leaves, the shop settles into a hush and feels different from its usual quiet. Not lonely. Not empty. More like that pause after reading a good chapter… the kind that makes you linger on the page before turning it.

            I move slowly through the room, picking up the stray paper hearts and smoothing tablecloths that have been disturbed by nervous hands. The candles have burned low, their wax pooling in soft, uneven shapes and the air still filled with the faint warmth of bodies and laughter, a ghost of the evening’s chaos. Jamie’s chair is still slightly askew; one we forgot to fix after the accidental touch. I reach out and nudge it back into place, my hand lingering on the wooden backrest longer than needed. Chairs don’t remember people. Ridiculous, I tell myself.

            But I do. I replay the night in its fragments. The way he blew into the shop. I remember his politeness sitting through the cat's dietary restrictions, and the way he whispered back with Morag, whose name I discovered at some point during the night. The way he laughed when helpless against Baxter’s enthusiastic assault. Then the quieter moments, the candlelight between us, the conversation about Jane Austen and him saying he had a nice time. There had been something there. Not anything sweeping. This isn’t a romance novel. But something gentler, a spark maybe. A beginning.

            I gather the last of the paper hearts into a small pile and hesitate before pushing them into the bin. Instead, I tuck one into the pocket of my cardigan. A keepsake. For the event. For the shop and for tonight. Outside, the rain has eased into a fine mist, the streetlights a shimmering haze. I lock the door and stand for a moment, breathing in the cool air. I glance at the chalkboard sign and trace the outline of my heart-shape with my thumb, smoothing the chalk. I glance down the street, half expecting to see Jamie’s figure under the streetlights. But he’s long gone, swallowed by the city’s night. Still, the thought of him lingers, warm and insistent. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself and head home, the paper heart rustling with every step.

***

            The next morning, the shop feels different. Lighter. As though the chaos of the night before had shaken something loose. Doubt. Maybe even a little fear. Sunlight filters through the windows in soft, golden beams catching the dust in a slow, drifting dance. Moving through the shop, I notice things I usually overlook. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath my feet, the gentle sway of the hanging fern Gran had insisted would ‘bring the place to life’. It all feels hopeful. As if the shop itself had taken a deep breath overnight.

            When I reach the counter, my phone buzzes. A message from a name I recognise. My heart gives a small traitorous flutter. I open the message, expecting something polite and short. Instead, a bright, beautifully designed poster fills the screen. Warm colours, a whimsical little terrier sketched in the corner, tail mid-wag. The title reads ‘Blind date with a book. Find your next favourite story’. Below it, a message:

            Baxter approves. I do too. Coffee soon? – J

            I press the phone to my chest, smiling stupidly. Gran always said stories connect people. Maybe she’d been right, about everything. Maybe this is the beginning of a new one.

© 2026 CMG Writing. All rights reserved. This story is the original work of CMG Writing and may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, or republished in whole or in part without prior written permission from the author. Unauthorized sharing or reproduction of this content is prohibited.