Authors Note
Another short story I wrote between working on longer stories. While I understand the passion of the community, I please ask that any feedback be constructive and not abusive. Any negative feedback will not be read. I encourage constructive feedback on my work via the comments or DM's as I want to grow within a positive community.
Fingers crossed, MrJ.
...
Abigail takes the four stone steps from the street to the narrow timber framed doors. She can see through the glass panels inside before she opens the door. The high narrow rows of shelves packed tightly with ancient books. It's just as the old canvas sign hanging from the red brick facade of the heritage building says. "One Million Pre-Loved Books". The few times she has walked past she chuckles at the rough old sign and the little-noticed disclaimer handwritten in faded black felt pen, "Subject to the final count. Taking applications for counters". The sign on the glass panel over the door in find calligraphy reads "
Chronicles Fine Publications
". She believes this may be a throwback to the bookstore's hay day as one of Downtown's busiest booksellers. But the art of reading paper form books is all but gone. Bookstores come in two types, discount chain stores that are racing a dyeing race to compete with online options. And ones like the Chronicles that have pivoted to "pre-loved", antique or rare books.
With her first child at university and second well into his high schooling Abigail has found more time for herself. She reflected on the little joys of her youth that made her happy. This led to her rediscovering the thrill of reading. Not just reading but reading real books. The texture of the parchment, the smell of the leather cover of a first edition, the small curves of the Times New Roman lettering. This brought Abigail to her Saturday adventures. Every few weeks she would tell those who listened that she was going to the gym or shopping.
But instead, she would board the No.96 bus to head downtown. Once in the city, she explores the network of old bookstores taking in the erotic nature of the written word.
Today she steps through the narrow doors into the old building filled to the four metre high ceilings with rows of timber shelving packed with books. The ageing timber floors creak under the patches of worn carpet that fill the spaces between the shelves. Each section is labelled with a handwritten description on a white laminated card hung perpendicular from the shelve uprights. Fantasy, Thriller, Mystery, Biography, Sports, Ancient History. Under each type are the letters of the alphabet stuck to the front of the shelves.
Abigail floats up the aisles, resisting the temptation to collect books too early. Too often she has only made it partway into these vast treasure troves of literature before filling her hands with books. At the front counter, two young shop clerks nod and smile a friendly greeting. Abigail is always curious about the weekend workers in these shops. Young enthusiasts of the analogue written world, idealistic university scholars maybe. Almost always in their early to mid-thirties, dressed in neat but low-cost clothing. For Abigail, something about their want to be close to the hard copies of literature makes them attractive. She reminds herself that they are no more than five years the senior of her eldest, but that does not stop the appreciation of their desire.
She moves deeper into the tall rows of bookshelves, one over and two back. She runs her fingertips over the leather and hardcover spines of the books, feeling the change in curves and texture. No glossy paper covers here, only old hard materials. Her body tingles with the sensation under her finger.
The white cardboard sign on the shelving upright says "reference: marriage counselling and advice". Abigail thinks why could she not have found this aisle a long time ago? It is not that they are divorced, or that they even dislike each other. It is just over time they fell out of love. Family, work, life. It all happens. When he was offered a posting to Thailand at the same time as Abigail being given a well-earned promotion the silent decision was made for him to go and her to stay. Kids stayed to finish high school and university. They will live their own lives after that.
Abigail absentmindedly picks up a pocketbook-sized publication from the middle of the reference section. The hard hessian-covered book cover has embossed words. "How to be a perfect wife". She chuckles to herself. It must be a conservative 1950's publication. She is not surprised to open the cover to the first page to read the author is a Rev James Millwright and the first edition date is 1952.
Holding the book in her hand she goes back to survey the section titles as one of the Chronicle's helpers makes his way down the narrow aisle towards her. She knows he works in the shop because of the standard-issue leather apron. One would expect to see a worker wearing one in a butcher or hipster bar, but the Chronicle has owned this outfit for many years. Abigail cannot help but notice the young man's physique. He wears the apron well over skinny-leg jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt.
The aisles of the tall bookshelves have barely enough room for two people to pass, but Abigail makes it tighter for the young man. She rocks backwards as he starts to move behind her. With a degree of familiarity, he places a hand on each of her hips as he slides his pelvis over Abigail's round arse. She is taken by the fleeting moment of intimate touch from an attractive young man. As he moves away, he is no longer taking up Abigail's weight, in a trance of erotic stimulation she forgets to stand as her legs buckle slightly under her. The clerk takes hold of her elbow to help steady Abigail.
'Are you all right madam?' He asks in a low baritone voice hiding his youth.
Flustered, she allows him to hold her elbow a little longer before replying. 'Yes. Thank you for your kindness.'
She thinks to herself, not just catching my fall but rubbing that hot young body against mine. She runs her eyes over him like he is a fine piece of artwork.
