A Bookshop Love Affair
There was a fat white cat asleep in the corner.
Her snoring in tune with the slow, easy
sounds of blues filling the air.
I saw you staring hard at the rows of books.
Your hair fell across your shoulder,
fingers sliding along the spine
of Hemingway, Kafka, skipping Meyer, back on O’Connor, and Thompson.
Your hand gripped the side of the shelf
and your eyes fluttered shut.
I stood there watching as you inhaled deep.
The breath hanging in your chest,
holding the bookstore’s aroma inside.
A smile crept across your face,
lips stretched out pressing dimples into your cheeks.
Opening your eyes, you looked right at me:
“The smell of books on wooden shelves is intoxicating.”
Standing, paralyzed by your directness,
I just nodded. You glided over to me
then took my hand in yours.
And in the fiction section began our own story.
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