In a Used Book Shop

We met in that used book shop on Main street, the name of which is both inconsequential and easily forgotten.  Next door there was once a barber shop and on the other side a hardware store both stand empty these days.  I remember when I arrived the odors of mildew, mold, old leather, canvas and dust were the first things I noticed.  It smelled of history and memories, I felt almost as if I had entered the chapel of such things.

We met in the Fantasy section, which was only appropriate as we both seemed to need one.  We had both been abandoned, her when he passed and I when I had been tossed aside like a useless thing.  We both had scars where we had been mishandled, we were old and forgotten, our lives long, our journeys many, children had left their markings on us both as well. We weren't completely sad sacks, there was some joy in us both still, but it seemed buried in heavy burdens.

She brought me to the coffee shop across the street and I  opened up to her and told her stories of times long past or maybe they were of a future yet to be,  who can know such things. She touched me gently and let me tell my stories, I could hear the stories in her heart and so I pushed forward those tales that might most affect her. She shed a silent tear as she seemed to reminisce about him, but she bravely continued on.  When we were exhausted, she let me go with a promise to see me again soon.

She was true to her promise and soon she could not leave me be for very long. She wanted to be distracted, to forget pains new and old. I could not help but give myself fully to her, as she was always so gentle, always wary of my wounds, always wary of my sensitive nature. Then I made her weep, a memory too far I guess, it wasn't new to me, I often caused people to weep. I was stained with tears both of joy and sadness. She did not give up on me though and she actually seemed joyful of those tears she had let go.

However our time together was coming to an end, I could feel the anxiety of that moment fast approaching, that tension was noticeable in both of us. I did not want it to end and neither did she, I was certain of that.  All stories have endings, it is rare they are happily ever after either, more often than not someone is in pain when we touch that last page.

She avoided me more toward the end, she was putting off the inevitable and it was obvious to both of us. She always said there were just more pressing matters to attend to and I don't doubt there may have been, but we both knew she did not wish to reach that finality.

In the end, we parted with her smiling, something I was glad for. She closed my cover and held me to her breast, then put me high upon her shelf and touched me gently along the spine. I needed her to hear my tale, she needed my distraction.