The girl and the bookstore

It was the most harmless of hobbies. Her co-workers wondered why they never saw her in the break room at lunchtime. Why she never lined up behind the microwave, pyrex-ware in hand like everyone else. It was the books, you see. Books are as bad as nicotine or crack. Once hooked, you, the user – are done for life. No amount of therapy or rehab with 200+ channels on the box, or the smörgåsbord of cat viddys on the interwebs can bring you back. So she practiced wingardium leviosas' when she thought no one was looking. She would close her eyes and fly across the Channel with Temeraire. Sometimes with a defiantly shameful half-smile, she would browse the shirtless-teen-vampire section. 'Not to worry' she would tell herself – 'there is time enough to atone for such things with Lawrence Durrell'. And so things were. Until that one day when she found an old bookstore a short walk from campus. The Upper Midwest tests your mettle in winter – but for those strong of spirit who make it through six months of grey skies (usually with the help of books) – Spring throws one heck of a party. Tank tops were back, the convertibles had been released from hibernation. The undergrads were gone and the quad was full of graduate students whose advisors were away on conferences.

Who spends their lunch hour at a bookstore, of all places – in such glorious weather? Well, she did. Maybe she liked the solitude. For someone who loved to share by writing, she was also something of a loner. Well, a mass of contradictions, really – but wrapped up in a very well read personality. So, the bookstore. A bright, shiny chain store this was not. Well, who are we kidding, those giant chain stores have all gone belly up and it is only people's love of esoterica that keeps these hole-in-the-wall places open. That, and the cookies they have at the desk. The storekeeper was straight out of Dickens – add a hunchback and the picture would be complete. Had it not been for the electric lighting, she would have suspected that the bookstore was carefully parked in the late 19th century. As it was, the owner never took plastic. Sure, he had a sound explanation about small businesses and credit card transaction fees. But still – all cash?

The bell jangled as she pushed her way in. Shaw, the resident German Shepherd raised his muzzle, recognized her and went back to his meditations. 'Back here miss, got a new consignment to unpack'. It was strange and slightly creepy how the keeper always seemed to know when she walked in. The storefront was tiny. It was only when you walk in that the true size of the place became apparent. Endless, labyrinthine, Time Lord technology at work, perhaps. Or maybe Pratchett was right and a critical mass of books does distort Einsteinian spacetime into the hyper exotic L-space that only orangutans with doctoral degrees can navigate. Whatever – she walked right in, carefully avoiding Shaw's chew toys and made her way to her favourite section – '19th century Fantastika' (the nerdy typographer inside her swooned every time she saw that sign.)

There was a book about dragons that she had spied her last visit over. Thankfully it was still here. She opened it up. The frontispiece was a beautiful engraved plate of a huge dragon with scales dark blue and speckled like the evening sky. The beast towered over the man who stood alongside. The man was dressed in a greatcoat and wore wonderful steampunky aviator goggles. The chapter was titled - ' On the rearing of Noble Dragons'. Oh joy. Thunder rumbled outside. Our girl did not notice. This book was quite something else. The writing was utterly dry – like a lab manual, in fact. But what really threw her was the complete sincerity with which the book spoke. She turned back to the frontispiece. The dragon's eyes shone with a brightness that no plate should have been able to capture – certainly not one one from a book printed in (quick flipback) – 1805. In the Prague, of all places. Shaw announced himself by licking at her elbow. 'Alright then, you moocher – lets go get you a cookie' – she said. Shaw obviously understood human speech, for he happily turned around. She followed his wagging tail through what seemed like more than the normal quota of turns and corners before she made it to the desk. Which was unattended. She raised the huge glass bell and grabbed a cookie for Shaw and one for herself. The dog sat expectantly waiting for her. She looked around again. Nobody. Then she noticed the aviator glasses on the desk. Old, very old. With frayed leather straps and slightly chipped dark lenses.