The Author's Cover Shop

I shift the fresh bouquet of white lilies to my other arm and reach to grasp the slim handle that's gently resting on the glass door. The smell of fresh paint and roses greet me, cardboard boxes littering the ground save a small patch of uncluttered lime green tile. The thin walking trail forks to the left, my ears picking up on the shuffling of paper and scratching of a pencil. I catch sight of a young man sitting on a cheep garden chair and I cough to grab his attention. He looks up from the large sketchbook precariously balanced on his crossed legs and startles, obviously oblivious to my presence till now. He smirks and throws the sketchbook onto a stack of books beside him, striding over with his hand outstretched.

"First customer! We're actually still closed but-"

He shrugs and I rush to shake his hand, noticing the swipes of red paint staining his skin.

"Oh I'm sorry I can go and come back later I didn't see the sign-"

"Oh god no it's just a mess in here, come on in though, feel free to browse through the boxes."

And he heads behind he counter, shuffling through a stack of unorganized paper. I set my bouquet on a miraculously clean table and take a look around, noticing the framed art in stacks on the ground, a few pieces beginning their ascent to the walls. A tiger leaps from the confines of its frame, bursting into glass fragments scattered on the wall that reflect broken bits of rainbows onto the ceiling.

"What do you think?"

He scratches the back of his neck as I try to think up an intelligent compliment.

"Cool..."

I reply, reaching out to touch the painting.

"No it's still wet!"

He jumps forward, grabbing my hand. His fingers are smooth, only accustomed to the work of a paintbrush and the moving of canvases. We both pause, his hands are warm and soft, unlike mine that are worn and perpetually cold. I shift ever so slightly and he pulls away, sheepishly taking a step back.

"You're here for a book cover?"