It’s something I’ve kept secret for some time now. Not many people would get excited, or even care, but for me it brings sweetness, a kindness that cannot be felt anywhere else. Each time I enter the store the clerk smiles, then continues reading the day’s paper behind the counter. Although we’ve barely spoken a word to each other, we communicate through brief gestures and perusing each other’s books.
I predict the number of steps it takes to reach my favourite section. As I zigzag through the aisles the faint dusty smell tickles the inside of my nose. Months ago the dust used to make me to sneeze, but my senses have learned to adjust.
I finally reach the row of books that stand proudly side-by-side. Some have enjoyed many generations of hands carefully turning each page, with eyes desiring the next word. Others have just a few select admirers, but still rank among the best in the world.
I slide my fingertips along the spines of these distinguished works of art, feeling each thread of cloth and bump of leather as it indulges my senses. I step closer to the shelf, close my eyes and breathe in the history, trying to dream my way into their worlds.
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