The
dim lighting gives the store the old, dark and dusty look that you
might find in an old building or an old library. As I walk in trough
the door, a doorbell comes to life and a - to my surprise - young
lady leans to the side of a book case from the top of a ladder to see
who has just walked in. “I’ll be right with you,” she says,
while placing a few books on the top of the rack and then climbing
down. For some reason I notice her clothing, a long grey skirt with a
white blouse that doesn’t have much trouble hiding her curves.
“How
can I help you?” she asks when she stops in front of me. Her eyes,
the colour of which is difficult to see in the dim light, fascinate
me and I almost ask wich colour they are. I restrain myself, and
instead give her an awkward smile. “I'm just looking around, if you
don't mind.” Only now I notice her glasses that give a short
twinkling from the reflected light outside as she turns around. “Let
me know if you need anything,” she says as she walks back to
whatever she’s been doing before I came in.
I
start walking past the rows and shelves of books, letting my mind run
free. This kind of bookstore isn't very common anymore. Shelves
filled with books, with the older ones in the back of the store in
the dimmer light from the sparsely placed lightbulbs, the smell of
paper in the air as if the books that are for sale have been standing
there for a very long time. When I reach the older books, looking at
the spines and reading the titles, I feel a strange sensation.
Nothing unpleasant, just something like you feel when someone asks
you questions and you need to think about the answer.
A
wild thought occurs to me when the sensation disappeared again. The
smell and feeling of the book store suggest an aura of mystique. New
book stores are sterile compared to this one and seem to lack the
thing that would bind customers to come back. The lady I saw when I
came in appeared again behind me with a shy smile on her face. “Can
I interest you in this?” she asks, holding out a book bound in dark
brown leather.
‘Werewolves’,
the title reads. I look at the lady with a bit of surprise. “How
did you know I like stories on werewolves?” The question has left
my mouth before I realise it. Even in the dim light, I can see a
faint blush on the lady's cheeks. Her eyes drift down but her
posture, which doesn’t really match with her bashful look, seems to
say ‘I would like to tell you, but I fear that you would get mad if
I did’. Only for a few seconds is this visible, before the lady
composes herself again. Somehow I find myself very attracted to her.
The thought of asking her for a drink briefly crosses my mind.
“You
seemed the type that likes this kind of book. Am I wrong?” she
says. Automatically, I shake my head to indicate that she was right.
We walk back to the counter and once there, I can see her eyes
clearly. They are as grey as a cloudy summer’s day.
From
behind the counter, she takes the book from me again and looks up the
price.
“The
book is 12,50 but you can have it if you take me to dinner in a few
days.” As she says this, I can see her cheeks flare up bright red.
The sensation I noticed earlier comes back again. I look at the lady,
but can’t see anything on her face that suggests that she is behing
my silent questioning. In my mind I demand that the questioning
should stop, and the feeling goes away.
“You’re
very good at guessing,” I venture, trying my best not to make it
sound like an accusation, but more like an compliment. As much as
that is possible, the lady’s cheeks turn even redder. “My name is
Jack. How about tomorrow?” I say, before she can respond to my
remark. Relieved that she doesn’t have to reply, she smiles and
holds out her hand.
“Yoana,
and yes, that would be nice," is her answer. We exchange phone
numbers and I walk out the bookstore, a book and a date with a
beautiful, yet mysterious woman richer.
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