George's POV
I sighed. Paul had let out a grunt and buried his face in a pillow, he wasn't going to talk to me. I decided to go outside and smoke a cigarette. I grabbed my coat and hat when Ringo placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Can I come?"
"Of course you can." I answered and he grabbed his coat. I opened the door and we came out into the hall. A maid was scrubbing the carpet clean and we made sure to turn around before she had time to see our faces. Ringo didn't attempt to make conversation, we knew well how to keep one without even uttering a single word. We exited the hotel and I brought a cigarette up to my lips. I lit it and gave it a long drag, watching the cloud of smoke and fog float before my eyes in the cold air. Ringo wordlessly took a cigarette from my pocket and lit it with his own lighter. The streets were empty, the pavement was covered in snow and there wasn't a single person in sight because of the cold.
"I'm going to take a stroll Rings, alright?" I told him, crushing my cigarette against a lampost. He nodded, giving me a slight smile and I walked in the opposite direction. I passed a few shops, mostly clothing stores and I stopped when I encountered a used bookstore. The yellow light inside gave an impression of warmth and I slipped inside, my hands gone numb with the cold. I cleaned my boots on the doormat and I was welcomed by the crackling of a fire and the smell of old books. The store was empty. The owner was sitting on a sofa beside the fire, a book on her lap.
"Hello." I said loud enough for her to hear. She looked up from the book, gave a slight nod and took off her thick glasses.
"Je peux vous aider?" I smiled uneasily, not understanding what she was saying.
"Je suis désolé, I don't speak French."
"Et moi je ne parle pas Anglais, donc, comment va t-on s'en sortir?" she asked and I tried understanding the phrase, she was telling me that she didn't speak French and something about me going out, she clearly had used the word sortir.
"Can I have a look around?" I asked and she gave a nod. The store had mahogany bookshelves, lining the walls. I walked through the various shelves "Litterature Française", "Litterature Espagnole", "Litterature Anglaise." I stopped in front of the latter, familiar names jumping to my eyes.
"What kind of book would Maya like?" I wondered aloud, thinking about the books i'd seen in her shelves.
"Vous cherchez un livre pour une fille?" the owner suddenly said from beside me. She had pale eyes and auburn hair. She seemed to be a few years older and she was as tall as me.
"Sorry?"
"Vous searching books pour une girl?" she tried, mixing up both languages.
"Yes."
"Qu'est-ce qu'elle aime lire?"
" French litterature, but she's got too many books on that. She also likes Engliah litterature but I don't know what to give her." The girl nodded and pulled out a leatherbound book.
"1984, Orwell." she told me , placing it on my hand.
"No. Too, rebellious I think." She let out a laugh.
"She likes Alice in Wonderland. And Dalí."
"Surrealistes? André Breton." I shook my head.
"She already has him."
She thought for a second and motioned for me to follow her. She took me to abother shelf that read "Litterature Etrangère" The books had foreign names and I felt uneasy because I couldn't understand a single one.
