Perhaps, the sun had my wholesome business of
visiting the bookstore scathed in its dynamically unsound rays. However, the
book is my companion, always has been. Besides, the unfurling scents of new
crisp books and old tattered books innate my senses, even under their
stagnancy, whatsoever. So, the idea of seeking the former kind of essence
propelled me into launching on my bathroom at eight o'clock on the dot in the
morning. I couldn't go to Connaught Place all sweaty after all the workout, I
am glad I did not.
Off I went, and I stood the ground where my kindred
spirit, the book had applied on itself multitude. Hence, several of its
offspring compounds were stacked on one another in severely brown and regent
shelves. I knew that the fans hung low
and they descended from the colonial pieces of the appliance, but I did not see
them once through my visit this time. Yes, I had been there before.
Basically, it was retroactive of me to smile at the
gracious young man who held the counter, but his familiar features resurrected
correction and I considered him its heir. I deposited my bag pack to the guard
and he shoved the priceless creature that endows my back with the privilege to
keep it erect, in a shelf. I am clumsy and I walk hunched. It is a staple
fashion to deposit your belongings before you initiate shopping to a guard and
to acquire a token from him, just in case he forgets that we did not break the
ceiling and enter the shop to snarl at and rob the owner.
Speaking of the owner or the heir, as I would like
to consider him, I smiled at him again on Mercury, now that Earth refuses to
register my rare and unlike-me
actions. He did not let my reflexive behavior which I attained on entering that
'since 1910' sort of legacy diminish. For, when the awaited and slightly
ignored alliance with my kindred spirits had started to be practiced, he graced
the unsightly creature stuck with adhesive under the tallest stock of books on
the back of his revolving chair, another old fashion in shops, owners entail
chairs that revolve. I am not particularly hideous to look at, so to speak but
my hair is an entity that puts me through suffering, severe one. By the way, he
graced my cousin with a cordial rather than customary help.
His hair constituted latent streaks of hazel, with
outdoing tones of dark brown. I do not remember the color of his eyes because I
don't think I was granted with that one honorable minute moment in the whole of
my visit of credibly making this bit of the examination. I could hardly look up
at him, I reckon and I would not mention why.
Apart from that, his complexion was a rich shade of what we call a fair
complexion; he was not pale or pink. Therefore, I am certain of witnessing an
absolute male after a long time, he wasn't vampire
pale and he wasn't the stereotypical
homosexual pink.
"I should indeed maintain my distance from
vampires," I muttered confidently to myself and he heard it, when I'd been
forced to ask him where I could find The Vampire Diaries by the scrawling of
past suggestions from folks of reading the series in my head. I heard him
giggle, but I did not look back to confirm. Even though I've forgotten how
precisely he sounded, in there, his was the only sound my ears had strictly
prescribed to me.
'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban' was the
one missing book from the three of the series I had picked up and was arriving
in half an hour, so I could buy it. My urgency of owning the book was a tad bit
herculean, most definitely in a greater degree against having a while more to
witness, him among, him. So, basically, I did not feel succubus but plainly who
I am, a kindred to the book.
My ankles had been crucified, I wonder why I
workout sometimes like an hour of jogging would contribute in my holy emergence
into a Priyanka Chopra figure or most of the times, like I am profoundly
fixated with the infliction of a la carte produces and KFC. The point whereupon
I am stranded is, is that I sat on a seat which my cousin left when he went
arranging his younger brother's set of books to buy. I knew he hadn't purposely
offered it to his dissected elder cousin, but I still thanked and that was when
the heir adjourned his inspection of the store to look at me, and confirm if I
was thanking him. He swayed back, now that he knew I was not thanking him, in
the classic mannerism that of an auspiciously royal being, almost medieval,
courtesy my collection of regency novels. This ain't exaggerated or stimulated,
a set of hormone did decently stroll across my chest and by all means, I was
blushing.
It wasn't the youthful and hormonal dimension of
embarrassment, it wasn't platonic too. If we negotiate and simplify and not
allow the institution of denial to seek victory, I had simply liked smiling at
him, adored how I had a miniature conversation with him when he was finding me
a book and had sweetly apologized when he led me to the wrong one and declared
that the one I wanted wasn't there and as a matter of fact, I appreciated my
gallantry deed of practicing something which is never my intention, never my
purpose ' I smiled.
This had happened to me often times way back in the
constringency of my preteen age, and fell upon my knowledge as distinctive and
fresh when I endeavored to steal one last glance of the heir of the bookstore
when my aunt held his opposite side of the counter and held him liable of a
false billing of the books. He was pardoned for his nave mistake, when he
summoned and returned the extra money he'd received, math math! He explained to my aunt the newness of the job which he
held and she smiled at him too. I thanked him and the caretaker of sorts of the
bookstore one last time, the latter absolutely familiar and not the original old
man's heir. I claimed by bag pack, wedged the token to Mister Guard's palm and
walked out as he opened the door for me and my party.
I was a few feet from the bookstore, I wished to
see a certain somebody again whilst my sentiment for them had gotten almost
platonic, and I turned my neck a few degrees around and adjusted it on the
windowpane of the shop, I saw half of his face and back of his curly brown
hair, and I realized I had to sacrifice the already scratchy view. For, my
cousins still had to buy books, and I secretively wished it struck them, they'd
forgotten some belonging in the store, so that I could pout and follow them back miserably, we'd already come halfway toward the next.
But I am not dramatic, I instantly got over it. My
regard of him, platonic now and my face, feeling sensations of a new way of
having its muscle pulled aimed at the heir of the bookstore one last time.
Lastly, I sighed in a bundle of relief that he did not hear the byproducts of
the gurgling-Pepsi-procedure in my mouth on the counter, apparently.
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