The old bookstore is a small, two-room shop that rests snugly between a family-run diner and a three story inn called the Cendre de Rose. It isn’t in the greatest part of town, but all the artists and musicians and writers live there and they’re nice people. Dysfunctional, but nice. Today is Tuesday and the sky is gray with a slight breeze. Even this deep in the city you can taste the salt of the ocean that rises and falls just beyond the jungle of silver and blue skyscrapers. The wooden beams and old green paint of the bookstore seem even more faded, and the two large windows on either side of the one red door are a little dirty. Nicolai, the owner, is putting away a few books on one of the wooden shelves in the back. The covers are hard and worn and smell of old paper. He loves that smell. That’s why he quit his job and spent his life savings on the thrift bookstore. As he sets down an old red copy of Catcher in the Rye, the little bell at the front door rings. He stands up and goes to the front of the store, slowly and with a gentle ease, to see who has entered. It’s a girl, with brown hair and very light blue eyes. She has on a lilac-print dress, a blue pea coat, and brown moccasins.
“Where’s the owner?” she asks suddenly and a little awkwardly.
“I’m the owner,” Nicolai replies.
“Oh,” she says, and begins looking at a row of books that rest on a shelf beside her. She grabs an olive colored book, Tarzan of the Apes, and starts to finger through a few pages. “Do you have any Hemmingway?” she asks, just as Nicolai is turning to leave.
“Actually, someone brought in a-” He is cut off by the girl’s soft voice.
“You’re my father,” she says, not taking her eyes off the page she is on.
Nicolai is puzzled for a few seconds, but says “ Well, that can’t be. You seem to be in your early twenties and I’m only thirty-two.”
“Hmmm.” She stands there, still looking through the book for a few seconds. “Sorry, then. Wrong bookstore,” she says and sets the book down and walks out the door.
“That’s odd,” Nicolai says to himself, “this is the only thrift bookstore in the whole city.”
“Where’s the owner?” she asks suddenly and a little awkwardly.
“I’m the owner,” Nicolai replies.
“Oh,” she says, and begins looking at a row of books that rest on a shelf beside her. She grabs an olive colored book, Tarzan of the Apes, and starts to finger through a few pages. “Do you have any Hemmingway?” she asks, just as Nicolai is turning to leave.
“Actually, someone brought in a-” He is cut off by the girl’s soft voice.
“You’re my father,” she says, not taking her eyes off the page she is on.
Nicolai is puzzled for a few seconds, but says “ Well, that can’t be. You seem to be in your early twenties and I’m only thirty-two.”
“Hmmm.” She stands there, still looking through the book for a few seconds. “Sorry, then. Wrong bookstore,” she says and sets the book down and walks out the door.
“That’s odd,” Nicolai says to himself, “this is the only thrift bookstore in the whole city.”
