I pushed open the door to a used bookshop, stepping in off the cobblestone street, and heard the *ding* of a bell overhead. Flecks of dust sparkled in the rays of afternoon sunshine peeking through the storefront windows.
It was quiet in the shop — no music — just the low hum of the fans as they swiveled and gently swept air among the stacks of books. I could smell a slight mustiness from the old books, and I took a deep breath, delighting in the coziness of this bookshop.
As I wound my way slowly through the maze of bookshelves, my gaze slid over the spines of the books. I paused here and there to touch the pages of a particularly old book, or one with an enticing title.
Finally standing at the back of the bookstore, I set my purse on the floor and started fingering through the book I’d plucked — mesmerized by the surprisingly explicit and erotic drawings from a bygone era that I found within.
A creak of the floorboards pulled my attention out of the book and to the man who appeared out of the dust on my left.