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While many frequented the grandeur of modern, multi-leveled book stores with the designer intent of ushering the new generation, not far removed from the bustling city center, was a book store. This street was quiet and so to the comings and goings of foot traffic. This part of town resembled the generation of old when the modern advancement of science and ingenuity excelled, and when the social dynamics and restraint of society were questioned and fought. That period of history was represented in grand architectural magnificence, and in the most minuscule of details for not even a door handle was overlooked in its craft.
The turn of the century evolved and bringing with it the shifts in the cultural representation of its time. The heritage buildings became few and sometimes dwarfed in the shadow of the heaven aspiring skyscrapers. But in comparison to their modern counterparts, some appreciated them all the more.
It was in quaint, renovated watch store that many upon many books had made a temporary home. A large sign painted in green and yellow upon the brick face promised a million and more books of every topic imaginable. There was no better invitation.
Twin, wooden doors with rickety, chipped, plated gold handles open to reveal a room equal in counterpart to its antiquity. The light fittings, showcasing its period of design, illuminated the room in a soft yellow hue, aged from time. Sections of wall still feature dated wallpaper while some attempt had been made to remove and repaint. A counter fits snug in the entrance corner and was always staffed; greeting all and whomever stepped into the fold. Before the individual were five double sided shelves, stretching far into the cavernous depths. For those shelves that couldn’t maintain more books, an obvious bow in the shelf medium, piles stacked a meter or more high, were scattered about. Discount tables occupying the remaining open space of the entrance foyer provided a variety of bargains. Glassed cabinetry housed rare findings and antique treasures validated at an exuberant amount. More than a months wage were required for such purchases. First editions were scattered among the shelved, second hand books and it was by fate that someone was lucky to find one.
With a familiar smile to the counter staff, you proceed forward. Nothing in-particular brought you here, only to pass the time, and what time better spent than among books. It's within its depths that with a strong inhalation the atmosphere is complete. Mildew, dust, and that distinctive scent of aged paper. If wisdom and literature had a smell, it was this.
Like the yellow light, years of exposure whether to light, air, or both, few books were unmarred by the passage of time, but it added to the appeal. For the book itself was more than its contents; each and every one had a personalised history. Far traveled, or decades content atop the shelf in home, or perhaps, for some unlucky few, smothered in the dark of storage, awaiting the fresh air and light to be exposed upon its pages. And then there were the owners themselves. Each book had a story or two, and here they awaited another home, for another to appreciate what they had to offer.
However sentimental, such thoughts were uttered quietly and occupied your travels. Rarely had you visited without traveling down every isle, for each deserved attention. Your fingers trail lazily from spine to spine, emitting consecutive, dull thuds as they pass. Effortlessly, the material is unconsciously identified from the tactile connection; leather, fabric, plastic, and inexpensive paperback. All the while, your eyes scan top to bottom, left to right; searching and seeking the undiscovered.
You marvel at all there was to offer and every detail to be examined. For as important as were the contents of each book, personal value lied in their appearance. The bindings and covers: a variety of floral banners and elegant designs were your aesthetic, and to, the addition of frayed and worn condition making each unique. Some where in better condition than others and consequently a predominate factor determining value. While on occasion you stared wishfully at a desired collectible item and so began the silent battle in which you aimed to justify spending such a ridiculous amount, it always conceded with defeat, promising to yourself ‘next time’.
The worn carpeted floor creaks in protest of the additional weight, revealing the wooden slates hidden beneath. Intermittently, the comfortable silence is broken by the muttering of hushed conversations. Of those who too, ransack the store, one sits upon the aged carpet, unconsciously gnawing their finger, enraptured and you foresee a future purchase. Another balances a tower of books while securing the one keenly battled for atop the far shelf.
So preoccupied in your own observations, you’re oblivious to the one who does so to your person.
Back tracking, you revisit your favourite section, eyes focused on the titled spines. Some novels you withdraw and cast an appreciative glance, reminiscing hours of enjoyment and the story foretold. One in-particular captures your attention, the exaggerated text unfamiliar. Wiggling it free from between the cramped space proves a task. The novel is given a once over, a flip through its pages, a soft hum as you muse to yourself. It calls so lovingly, but already so many awaited at home, unread and unfulfilled. With pursing self-restraint, the book is returned but trying to wedge it into the space is difficult and it fumbles from your grasp.
It lands with a thud and flutter of pages. Following the descent and collecting it in-hand, it's by chance that you cast a sparing glance at the bottom shelf. Through the space created between the shelf above and books below, there is flitting movement. You pause, examining the place further. There was no ground to think suspiciously of it for it was probably another customer on the opposing side, and with that reasoning justified, so easily you discard further thought.
Successfully, the novel is returned to its original place and it's before you continue browsing that your attention is diverted from further thought of books.
The prickle so rarely experienced but so frequently described in text. Many had detailed the odd and unnerving sensation: of an invisible apparition, or when one feels the eyes on another upon their person. For you, it was the daunting sensation of a presence at your back. With some hesitance, you glance warily behind only to find the narrow path deserted. You sweep the area as if trying to find evidence of what you had felt, yet nothing remains to be found.
It all seems too quiet now.
You mock yourself and force away the scream of instinctual caution but you shudder at the sudden feeling of exposure. A breath of calm and leveled strides distant yourself from the area and from your denial. With every step, the phantom creeps behind, breathing upon the nape of your neck. You stop abruptly, body taunt as a prickle traces down the length of your spine and you stiffen further, choking a breath and ensnaring it within your throat.
You whip around, arm flying out in self-defence but you freeze mid-action. There’s no one there! The shock reclaims your breath and soon quickening to match the racing of your heart. You stumble backwards, pressed against the wall of literature and staring at the empty isle. But you had felt it! Whatever it was! Eyes once wide in fear, narrow in scrutiny. They flit, searching for some evidence to justify your madness and soon they fix upon another.
There between the small space formed between shelf and books, wide eyes to match your own watch you. Was this your phantom? A weak huff of laughter sounds at your stupidity but simultaneously it was evident that you weren’t crazy.
Still the unidentified stranger stares shamelessly and it's with curiosity not irritation for their behaviour, do you draw close. For a moment you think their irises red but perhaps is was the lighting, disillusioned their true colour of rich brown. But three steps from your position the shelf is severed to allow navigation between the lengthy stretch, and so an invisible force prompts you.
Your steps are cautious, rounding the corner and preparing for what you might find. A girl, a woman, acknowledges you. She is of a short stature and free following hair. Her hands drop from the shelf outcrop from where she stalked malevolently. It's most unnerving how her head but slightly tilts as if her ear is straining to hear something and her eyes indecipherable.
“Were you following me?” Though the question originated from fear and accusation, to your own surprise it's tinged with curiosity, for what would drive this woman to do such.
She is silent still but her mannerism say differently: randomised twitching of her ringed fingers, marginal shift in weight, drawn intensity of her doe-eyes. It suggested something…other worldly.
“I did not mean to frighten you,” she replies at last. It was accented. From where you didn’t know but it made her all the more enigmatic.
“Meaning you didn’t intend to get caught.” The counter suggested the hidden meaning of her reply. She smiles and you almost miss it; the slight upturn of her lips. Ah, so you had caught her.
“You are perceptive.” It held a commendable tone and you cast away shyly. She draws you to her again. “You love books,” she states with assured knowledge. It was a careless assumption to be projected onto someone simply for being in a book store. Yet this woman said so with such conviction it were as if she knew herself to be right. Although her voice, so subtle and genteel, might dissuade others, it was her eyes: all intensity and mirroring your soul. She betrayed nothing yet alluded to so much.
“Yes.” The reply is breathless, distracted by her drawing presence.
“Tell me,” she prompts. “Why do you love them so?” Her intrigue is startling to say the least but it prompts you to consider it. It was easily answered but to say so in such few words without spewing an hour long confession was difficult.
Pondering the question, slowly you wander, expression reflective of your spiraling mind. The woman follows keenly, eyes intent but masked. Submerged by the illusive nature of this stranger and her questions you don’t stop to ask yourself why you felt obliged to answer her.
“Manipulation.” You say at last yet you can’t be sure she hears it for you’re turned away. “The author’s ability to manipulate language so masterfully, and with the intent of manipulating the readers emotions, imagination, and inspiring contemplation and question.” It had become intimate so quickly. You were strangers, not knowing her name and vice versa, but here you stood exchanging these intimacies. “It’s those moments I seek. To muffle all this...noise, if only temporary.”
There is silence. It's comfortable for a stretched second before the barrage of your mind fills in the quieten space with speculation and contemplation. You watch with fascination as her lips part and her attention drifts briefly, eyes glazed and lost.
“I understand. To find a means to escape.” So soft she utters but her eyes speak volumes incomparable. Your mind reaches out in question: what had provoked her to seek such measures?
“Is that what brought you here?”
She smiles and thereby banishing the brief conjuration of her specter, “Among other things.”
Shrewd. It wouldn’t be that easy unlike yourself who had so willingly shared personal details. But the comment inspires a flutter and you start, suddenly embarrassed by the feeling.
“Well, you couldn’t have chosen better.” And she witnesses - she feels - the swell of fondness and attachment associated with what surrounds her, what she doesn’t yet appreciate, but now she wants that too. For herself.
Securing her claim, she focuses intently, “Show me.”
And you succumb effortlessly, prepared to give all that she might want. Something ignites and it's ferocious, and burns. You grin and she mirrors it with her own subtlety, and grabbing her hand, you lead her on a path not traveled.