Time To Go

Five: Kennedy

"That will be five dollars ninety-five please... may I also interest you in Pride and Prejudice, it's written by Jane Austen, and seeing as you have bought Sense and Sensibility, I thought..."

"Can I just have the damn book please..."

I stare at the customer vacantly, my tongue in my cheek as I look down at the book in my hand that I had just so kindly scanned for her.

She won't respect me, I think as I look down at the flimsy paperback which I envision at a later date will be crooked and misshapen purposefully in the bottom of the draw, a bookmark wedged in between pages two-three-two and two-three-three, neglect bleeding through the yellowing pages.

The customers I get on a regular basis are all the same. They never change. They are as predictable as any other in this town. I watch her leave the shop, the small bell ringing poetically as she goes, the wind attacking her harshly as she simply shoves the book in her pocket, and I shake my head. Literature, if anything in the world is the one thing that deserves to be respected. It is the most honest thing that the world and its people have to offer.

I snort as I leave my till refuge and begin to neatly place the pulled out books back onto the appropriate shelves. I snort because of the irony of it all. I snort at the fact that I believe that fiction is the most honest thing in my life.

I push the hardback case of Frankenstein back in between Mary Shelley's lesser known novels as I brush the dust from the shelves with my fingers. The sunlight streams in softly through the large windows as I let out a sigh which echoes its way around the shop. My bookshop is my home; despite the fact that I live four blocks away.

I breathe in the homely air as I make my way back behind the cash register.

The shop smells of old cigars and musk and I can't help but think of it being the little slice of bliss that my world has to offer me. It's my refuge... my cave. It's a quaint Victorian building compressed in between modernized cafés and newsagents, positively overflowing with historical value. I am not the manager, I am but a humble employee. Yet I am mostly always alone on my days of work, except of course on a Thursday when I have my sister's company.

Oh the joy...

I take a look around the shop. The children's section has brightly coloured stripes of red and orange to fill the shelves, adding a certain vibrancy to the deep mahogany of each surface. Surrounding shelves positively overflow with legends of literacy; Wilde, Bronte, Austen, Fitzgerald... all of them having had such a poetic way with words... a poetic way with life.

I look up at the clock. It's five minutes until six o'clock and I'm more than a little disappointed that I now have to lock up and go home. I shrug my coat on, feeling tired as I check the register, locking it safely and placing the keys in my pant pocket. Just as I have my back turned, a slight bell jingles behind me and I sigh at the idea of a customer coming in this close to closing time.

"Sorry, I was just leaving, you can come back-"

I'm interrupted by two arms sliding around me. I freeze, turning slowly into the opened arms, and I am ludicrously stunned at the idea of not finding the two hazel eyes I secretly desired... don't be so silly, Kennedy.