Can you bleach mental images from your mind? Asking for a friend.
After assuring him that we had looked at every book in the building and that we did not, in fact, possess an illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra, he left deflated. He was understandably upset, knowing he would have to order one “from the dark online overlord” as he and Betsy had christened a certain online store. Better them than me. Said dark overlord isn’t going to have to know that the book is for an old man who considers himself quite the Casanova at the nursing home, but I sure fucking do.
My internal diatribe is interrupted by a chime from my cell. I pull it out without thinking, waking the screen with my thumb. The notification for a new text sends my heart sinking. I open the app and, of course, it’s from yet another unknown number. An unsolicited dick pic awaits me, pale and flaccid against what appears to be a bathroom floor. I groan and fight back a full-body dry heave, deleting the thread. I stuff my phone away, wishing the creep wasn’t smart enough to use generic,free texting numbers so I could forward themanysuch pictures to this asshole’s wife, mother, sister, grandmother and second grade teacher.
I sigh and wrangle my brain back into the game.
Given that the stocking is done, I set about going through the substantial amount of book donations we’ve received over the past few days. In addition to the buy/sell/trade evenings, we’ve been getting a huge influx of donated books. With the increase in book influencers flooding social media, more and more people are getting into reading (yay). However, that means that I have half a million copies of last week’s popular paperback to try to unload.
To be fair, we do have a free little library out front that I keep, what some would consider, “overstocked.” I also make the rounds once per week to fill in any holes in the other free little libraries in the city. Especially if it is a particularly popular book that we need to get rid of. I do also send out regular notices to our local book clubs. In the event that they have any of these on their rosters, we will hold the appropriate number of copies back for them to use, with the understanding that they will return them to the store if they don’t want to keep them or they can purchase them at a discounted price and save me the hassle. Everyone wins.
Betsy is surprisingly quiet today. When I ask her if everything is okay, she just smiles at me, then mockingly scolds me for interrupting her book. A group of older women – tourists, if I had to guess – come in and she shoos me back to sorting donations. She helps them herself, answering questions about the city, the bookstore, and making recommendations as easily as shehands out pastries and cups of coffee. Before I know it, they’re all chatting like old friends. It’s an amazing talent of older women to make friends with others of their kind in the blink of an eye. Maybe older generations have a point about our dependence on technology and social media.
I hope none of these women have a heart condition. I’m not sure that Betsy’s recommendations are for everyone, and I have no desire to have to testify before a judge because some sweet old lady kicks it listening to a story about King and his ten-inch dick pleasuring some maiden beyond her wildest imagination.
There are fingers snapping in front of my face.Shit. I guess King had me distracted. When I focus, Betsy is laughing in my face.
“You there, pumpkin? Where the hell did you go?”
I can feel my face heat. “N-n-nowhere. I was just… plotting. Yeah, I was plotting. Thinking about the scenes I need to write tonight.”
She tucks her tongue into her cheek. She fucking knows I’m lying.
Damn it.
“Uh huh,” she says. “Anyhooooo. Are you good to go, doll? I was going to take that box of little library donations and make the rounds. After that, I’ll probably just head home. Those women made our day!”
Clearly the tourists bought plenty of books while I was daydreaming. “Oh. Sure. No problem. I can handle it from here.”
Betsy launches into her “Casie needs reminders for everything” list while I smile, nod, and tune her out. She collects her things and, thankfully, turns off the audiobook.I’m working on replacing it with some sort of background noise – people who can work in silence are aliens, I swear – when she reaches the door.
Before she can turn the handle, it opens in front of her and she almost falls through it. She giggles like a girl and bats her eyelashes at the handsome man standing on the threshold.
He awkwardly shifts the bundle in his grip and gives her a short, respectful bow. Wait… a fuckingbow? Yep. More than just a slight inclination of his head that most twenty somethings throw their elders now, if they offer even that much. This motherfucker just bowed.
Oooookay.
Well, fuck me. Betsy curtsies to the adorable stranger on her way out, calling a goodbye to me over her shoulder. When she gets past the stranger, she turns to give me an exaggerated eye roll and wink. Gods. Message received. Why can’t she be like the matron of other families? Happily baking cookies and pretending sex doesn’t exist.
As the heavy wooden door closes behind him, the man takes a few hesitant steps towards the counter, again re-arranging the oddly shaped…package?in his arms. Did it just squirm?
He clears his throat.
“Miss?”
The mass in his arms continues to wiggle, uncovering itself.
Oh.
My.
Fucking.
Gods.
It’s the size of a Labrador puppy yet, still, somehow,impossibly unmistakable. That is a fuckingdragonstaring back at me, purring.
In. A. Fucking. Bookstore.
