I've missed you since we met

3.

The bookshop was impressive to say the least, even though it was only a small spot compared to the Oslo Deichman Library or the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid. Which the last contains a collection of 15 million of books. Nevertheless, I was like a child in a candy store, except, well, it was filled with books. It was moments like these when I realized how odd my excitement must seem to some people. I mean, it doesn't seem like many people are into reading nowadays. Sometimes I genuinely felt like I was weird for becoming so thrilled just because of a piece of bound paper, it really seems simple and quite boring when you put it that way. To me it was just always something more, however I expressed it. I remember being maybe ten years old and getting influensa and being home from school for a week. My mom caught it from me and had tostay home as well. She would lay on our worn-out living room sofa with a pack of tissues beside her, and always, a three foot pile of books on the floor right in front of her. It was quite the revelation to me. Immediately I became fascinated, as with many things that seemed very "grown-up" and sophisticated to me back then. Primarily it was a way of trying to impress her, but I recall finding an exemplar of Matilda in my dad's music storage and taking it to my room without asking. Something about the feeling of having almost committed a crime, and the impressive story about a little brown-haired girl, just like me, finding out reading is actually fun, completely took a toll on me. 

Looking around me I only saw walls covered in bookshelves. The floor was made of thick blue-ish glass that was see-through. I was walking on top of worlds themed after some of the most famous literary works. There was Harry Potter, Jo March, Sherlock Holmes, Quasimodo with his hunched back and even Katniss Everdeen was there. It was certainly odd to see all of them together, but I didn't care much for it. What really consumed me were all the books I had in sight. Looking around for the classics section I walked without noticing where I stepped and excused myself several times. Several times I bumped into a passers-by without even becoming awkward about it, somtehing that was unnatural to me. Evidently I knew my collection at home was already excessive, but I skimmed around for more to add to it. So far I had counted about 485 books in my own room, but I probably owned far more if you took the attic and the downstairs commode nobody ever opened into account.

 My eyes widened significantly and I hurriedly went over to reach for a really thick book with a little, brown-haired lady in a shiny, purple, period dress on it. Anna Karenina it read. Oddly enough for it being a bestseller, I never managed to find a single copy of it. By now I had developed a systematic procedure when finding a book I'm interested in. Start by hecking for any missing pages, then other errors in the binding, and lastly check the back side for a price. 18 pounds. "What the fuck?". A bit expensive for my bank account. Actually, the trip had ripped me off two years of work-money and even some of the savings my parents had for me. Still I mumbled a few words of disappointment. having seen through the classics, crime and two sections I don't even remember the name of, I walked sround looking for my dad. He had this tendency of forgetting I was around and casually walking away to smoke or use the bathroom without telling me where he was. For a moment I just stood still and looked around. I don't know wheter I was looking for dad or just pretended to focus on something to avoid contact with the workers that constantly asked if I needed any help and not so subtelly begged to say if they could "do anything for me". To be frank it was like having a teacher with coffee breath hanging over you and sending you a questioning look twice a minute to ensure you felt like they payed attention to you. Soon I realized my hands hurt from being clenched onto the book like someone was going to steal it from me. Without catching sight of what was going on ahead of me I only managed to pick up the sound of some incoherent words in the distance. And before I could even think of turning or looking up, or doing practically anything, I felt someone crash into me with real speed.

Next thing I knew I was lying on the ground, and of course, the first thing I thought about was the book. The book. I had lost it somewhere. My eyes hastily wondered across the floor until I recognized a familiar cover, although it had changed quite a bit. It was ripped and had picked up some of the dust as well as some sort of sticky, brown liquid from the floor. Well, there went that money. Perfect.