You give it a double-take when you first walk by and furrow your brow as you insist against your argumentative brain that you have never, ever seen it before. You wonder if it has opened up for business recently, but by observing the poor condition of the signage on its window front you accept that there is no way it could have opened in the last week, or month, or decade for that matter. You shrug off the confusion and smirk a little, anticipating the joy you are about to feel as soon as you step inside.
You tug at the wooden door handle and pull it open. The wood has worn down where people have touched it to enter the store. This, too, is perplexing--how is it possible that any number of people have walked through this door and you hadn't even known about its existence.
You step inside. The aroma of vanilla and incense wafts in your direction. There is a haze about the space, and you notice it is dust. The dust of the characters who have galloped away from from castles in search for their adventure, the dust which is blown of old treasure chests by pirates and gypsies alike, the dust that Victorian bourgeoisie despise in Parisian salons -- this dust is familiar to you, and yet you know not how.
There is an aged man sitting behind the cashier at the far left corner of the store. His circular spectacles have slid down his nose - indeed assisting the myopia of his experienced eyes. His hair is greyed, his puce coloured overalls have dulled due to being thrown into the wash one too many times. He wears an expression of puzzlement: he is consumed by the literature he holds in front of him. He has not looked up since you have entered. He has not sensed your presence. He is not concerned with the world outside the pages of his book.
You watch his expression alter with every page he turns and chuckle. You see yourself in him. You recognize the immersion he displays. You know he is reading one damned fine piece of writing. If only you could ask what it was.
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