Everyone here knows everyone here is thinking about somebody else [Gwen]

It had been a month, now, and John was starting to feel trapped again. The nights out, the drinking and dancing—they were only fun for so long. He needed to break away and find something new and exciting. He was running short on vacation time now that it was so close to the end of the year, but he still wanted to travel. What did that leave but books and film? His television was on the fritz now that it had mysteriously found itself kicked into the wall, and that wouldn’t do. He thought that a simple repairing charm would be enough, but electronics weren’t like regular things. He turned it back on, and it was useless to him. He’d need to buy another, and to do that he’d need to save up. So, bored of the night life and unable to watch film, John turned to books for entertainment. He’d amassed quite a collection while he was with Emily, and had not had much time to get through them. Now, though, he had managed to finish them all.

This filled John with a new sense of dread. He’d been accustomed to spending time with Emily at her bookshop, buying them there, talking to her about what he ought to be reading next. He was alone now. If he went to any old bookshop, he wouldn’t get anywhere near the same service as he would at a rare-find, specialty, and antique book shop. He wanted to talk to someone passionate about reading, passionate about art and passionate about what she did. She didn’t want to talk to a teenager with a part time job. He didn’t want to talk to someone that only knew what was going on now. The best books, John found, were those with history and meaning and depth. To find those, he needed a girl with the same things. He needed to find somewhere new.

So, he did some research, and he looked. It took him a few days of asking around, of searching and trying and failing to find the right place. He wanted a place he could be loyal to, as he’d once been loyal to Emily’s shop. He needed someone there who would be willing to talk and listen and share. At the very least he needed someone who had read more than the best-sellers and teen romance novels. John was looking for classics, looking for symbolic or politically-charged text. He was looking for something that gave him insight to other times, cultures, and places. An appreciation for that seemed to be lacking in every day society. He wouldn’t be satisfied with the mainstream.

Finally, John found himself in front of an old bookstore in the middle of Diagon Alley. Even from the outside, he could smell old books—the smell of freedom and adventure. It was everything he needed. It was a fresh start, and John couldn’t have been happier for the much-needed change of scenery.

It was déjà vu when he opened the door, to see the store so packed with books that they overflowed from the shelves that some were stacked on the floor up to his waist. It was like walking into the past, the scent overwhelming his nostrils as he did a double-take at the girl behind the counter. She was pretty and slender, her long brown hair reminiscent of a girl he’d once known. He tried to overlook it as he moved closer to the desk. “Hello.” He greeted, with a smile. She was much prettier up close. “Busy today?” He asked, noticing that the shop was empty, except for the two of them.

Softer than the falling dust and no less suffocating, the quiet that had settled upon the room was absolute.  Only the occasional noise from the alley beyond disturbed it; the clacking of footsteps of a passerby, or the slow, steady rumble of heavy wooden wheels moving over the cobblestone.  Nobody had walked through the door in nearly an hour.  It felt like much longer.  Gwenyth found herself staring listlessly off into space, lulled by the quiet tick, tick, tick of the clock; by the warm, stuffy air of the cramped little shop.

Doing her best to stay awake, she leaned up against the front counter, her hip bone digging uncomfortably against the polished wood.  She was tired from working that morning at the café.  The handful of coins she collected for working afternoons in the bookshop wasn’t nearly enough to pay for her studio flat on its own.  It was perhaps somewhat unrealistic, trying to rent a place of her own in the city, but the safety and familiarity of London had drawn her in.  There was nothing quite like the displacement she felt upon discovering the home she had grown up in had been taken over by new tenants.  What had happened to her things, she wondered – to her father’s books, her mother’s music?  Now she had nothing to remind herself of the place aside from her own fading memories.  In a way, it was utterly heartbreaking.  Nevertheless, it was a fresh start unlike anything she had experienced before, and after more than a year spent feeling trapped, isolated and lost, the change was welcome.

Gwen had come to discover that waitressing really wasn’t for her, but she found the work to be circumstantially rewarding nonetheless.  There was nothing like watching people in midst of their morning routine, stopping to grab coffee and a bite to eat before heading off to work.  The café, only open for breakfast, was extremely popular, often crowded and highly chaotic.  Already she had become acquainted with a few of the regulars, remembering their orders and little things they shared about themselves.  Mr. Watson preferred his eggs over-easy and was excessively fond of his kneazle, Tilda.  One young woman, whose name she did not know, never removed her sunglasses and wouldn’t speak a friendly word until she was given her coffee – black.  It was like a grand and intricate puzzle in her mind, one that she sought to put together piece by piece, but collecting clues was a slow and delicate process.

Meanwhile, her afternoons in the bookshop were quiet and often solitary.  Fortunately, she was surrounded by plenty of perfectly adequate company.  Gwen was leisurely working her way through the store’s collection of books, seeking to uncover their inner workings in much the same way she did with her customers at the café.  But today it was difficult to keep her mind on the open book before her; she kept losing her place, and would reread the same passages over and over until she had given up altogether.

When the heavy front door opened, the unexpected noise caused Gwen to straighten abruptly, quickly sliding the book into a drawer beneath the counter.  As the visitor stepped in, she looked up and returned his smile.  “Good afternoon,” she replied politely.  He had a nice smile; familiar in a way she couldn’t place.  “Actually, I’d started to wonder whether the sign out there said we were closed,” she stated lightly, glancing toward the door.  “You must be the first person I’ve seen in an hour.”  Looking back up at him, Gwen smiled again.  “Can I help you find anything?”

John’s friendly smile turned into a pleased grin at the girl’s response to his sarcastic comment. She seemed nice, pleasant. Her voice sounded like a ghost; it was familiar and comforting. The lightness of it helped to put him at ease. He had high expectations for this place, and thus far they seemed to be met. She didn’t look like a bubblegum teenager who wouldn’t care less about the books she sold. In fact, he could glimpse the book on the counter where he was certain she had been reading on the job. All of these were good signs.

“Actually, yes.” He replied to her. “My name is John,” he introduced himself briefly,  “...and I’m looking for a few really good books—classics, maybe. Something with something special to share, some deeper meaning, or rich history. Do you have any recommendations?” He raised his eyes to meet hers as he spoke, instinctively leaning closer. It was hard to remember this was a different place, a different girl. Even though he could clearly see the differences in this girl’s features and Emily’s, he couldn’t push the familiarity out of his mind.

It took him several moments to realize that he should probably give her a little more to work with than just that. Emily always knew what he liked, she always had things for him already picked out. This poor girl probably had no idea where to even start looking.

“I’m open to any genre, any type of story. I really just like to exploring them all, getting to know the author and what they have to say, getting to know their new world, or, sometimes, their old ones. That’s something I love about books. No two are the same, and each takes you on a unique adventure, often to a new place and always with new company.” He was talking too much, he didn’t care. He was passionate about books and new experiences  and new creation and new ideas. He loved talking about it.

“This being said, I’m quite the avid reader. The only reason I’d turn a suggestion down is if I’ve already read it.” he added, broadening his grin.

He stood back up, eager to be escorted around the shop. He really loved the look of the place, the homey feel. Book shops felt more authentic when they were like this—cramped, hot, dusty. Clean, plastic, shiny—that was boring. That was mainstream, easily digestible by the gullible, stupid masses. Today people often didn’t look twice at something old, dusty, or raggedy. They missed the beauty of these things, and John was determined to not fall victim to the same narrow-minded disinterest. He would take full advantage of the hidden gems he’d find here.

“Oh, just one more thing.” He started again, flicking his eyes up to hers one more time. “I’d like to hear a little bit of why you’re suggesting the book to me. I’d like to hear what about it left an impact on you.”