head, and then he reached with his hand and touched his cheek with his finger.
‘Mayonnaise,’ he said.
Annie frowned.
‘On your face … here.’
Annie smiled, a little awkward. ‘Oh,’ she said, and reaching for the serviette she touched the smear of mayonnaise away and then set her sub aside. She wiped her greasy fingers on the serviette and dropped it in the trash can beneath the counter.
The man looked slowly around the store, and then turned once again to Annie. ‘This is alphabetized, right?’
Annie shook her head. ‘No, not really.’
He frowned. ‘Not really?’
She laughed, a gentle echoey sound in the emptiness. ‘Some of it sort of hangs together around the same sort of bit of the alphabet, and some of it doesn’t.’
‘So how d’you find anything?’
She shrugged. ‘You wander, you look, you take your time … if you’re really stuck you ask me, I look in the inventory, and if we have it then we try and find it together, or I find it for you and you come back tomorrow.’
‘And this system works?’ he asked.
‘Well enough,’ she replied. ‘This is a bookstore for people who just love reading books, people who don’t really have a thing for a particular author or genre. We have regulars, quite a few of them, and each fortnight a new crate comes in and Istack them by the front door. They come in and go through the new stuff before I put it somewhere else.’
‘Well, if it works it works,’ the man said.
Annie smiled. She looked at the man more closely. She placed him at thirty-five, thirty-six perhaps. He was five-ten or eleven, reasonably well built, his hair a sandy color, his eyes gray-blue. He was dressed casually, a pair of jeans, a worn-out suede jacket over an open-necked blue shirt. His clothes were expensive nevertheless, and he wore them as if they had been cut exclusively for him.
‘You after something in particular?’ Annie asked.
He smiled. ‘Something to read.’
Annie nodded. ‘Sure, something to read. Well, something to read we can do.’
She waited for him to say something, but he stood there in silence, still surveying the semi-organized chaos around him.
‘So what do you like to read?’ she prompted. ‘And don’t say books, okay?’
The man laughed, and there was something meaningful in that sound. The sound of a man who had learned to laugh because he had to, because he’d realized it was therapeutic.
‘Pretty much anything,’ he said, ‘except for sci-fi … don’t get on fire for sci-fi.’
‘What was the last thing you read?’ Annie asked.
‘I read
The Weight Of Water
by Anita Shreve on the plane,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed that.’
‘Plane from where?’
‘Northwest Territories in Canada.’
The man seemed to relax a little. He put his hands in his coat pockets and took a step towards the counter.
‘That’s where you’re from?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m from here … originally I’m from here. Moved into this neighborhood a month or so ago but I’ve been away working since.’
Annie resisted the impulse to ask the man what he did. Shebelieved she had a right to ask him – an odd thought, but her thought all the same. She was sharing her time with this man, and more than likely he would be one of those that browsed and never bought, and thus she felt she should at least come away from this moment knowing something. She didn’t ask him about his work however, and instead asked him where he’d moved from.
‘East Village,’ he said. ‘Born in East Village. Work has taken me every place I can think of, but this has always been home.’
‘And you’re out surveying your new neighborhood?’
The man smiled, nodded. ‘Yes, surveying my new neighborhood,’ he replied, and then once again he took a step forward and extended his hand. ‘David,’ he said, ‘David Quinn.’
Annie instinctively wiped her hand on her pants before extending it in return. ‘Annie O’Neill,’ she said.
‘And this is your
‘Mayonnaise,’ he said.
Annie frowned.
‘On your face … here.’
Annie smiled, a little awkward. ‘Oh,’ she said, and reaching for the serviette she touched the smear of mayonnaise away and then set her sub aside. She wiped her greasy fingers on the serviette and dropped it in the trash can beneath the counter.
The man looked slowly around the store, and then turned once again to Annie. ‘This is alphabetized, right?’
Annie shook her head. ‘No, not really.’
He frowned. ‘Not really?’
She laughed, a gentle echoey sound in the emptiness. ‘Some of it sort of hangs together around the same sort of bit of the alphabet, and some of it doesn’t.’
‘So how d’you find anything?’
She shrugged. ‘You wander, you look, you take your time … if you’re really stuck you ask me, I look in the inventory, and if we have it then we try and find it together, or I find it for you and you come back tomorrow.’
‘And this system works?’ he asked.
‘Well enough,’ she replied. ‘This is a bookstore for people who just love reading books, people who don’t really have a thing for a particular author or genre. We have regulars, quite a few of them, and each fortnight a new crate comes in and Istack them by the front door. They come in and go through the new stuff before I put it somewhere else.’
‘Well, if it works it works,’ the man said.
Annie smiled. She looked at the man more closely. She placed him at thirty-five, thirty-six perhaps. He was five-ten or eleven, reasonably well built, his hair a sandy color, his eyes gray-blue. He was dressed casually, a pair of jeans, a worn-out suede jacket over an open-necked blue shirt. His clothes were expensive nevertheless, and he wore them as if they had been cut exclusively for him.
‘You after something in particular?’ Annie asked.
He smiled. ‘Something to read.’
Annie nodded. ‘Sure, something to read. Well, something to read we can do.’
She waited for him to say something, but he stood there in silence, still surveying the semi-organized chaos around him.
‘So what do you like to read?’ she prompted. ‘And don’t say books, okay?’
The man laughed, and there was something meaningful in that sound. The sound of a man who had learned to laugh because he had to, because he’d realized it was therapeutic.
‘Pretty much anything,’ he said, ‘except for sci-fi … don’t get on fire for sci-fi.’
‘What was the last thing you read?’ Annie asked.
‘I read
The Weight Of Water
by Anita Shreve on the plane,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed that.’
‘Plane from where?’
‘Northwest Territories in Canada.’
The man seemed to relax a little. He put his hands in his coat pockets and took a step towards the counter.
‘That’s where you’re from?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m from here … originally I’m from here. Moved into this neighborhood a month or so ago but I’ve been away working since.’
Annie resisted the impulse to ask the man what he did. Shebelieved she had a right to ask him – an odd thought, but her thought all the same. She was sharing her time with this man, and more than likely he would be one of those that browsed and never bought, and thus she felt she should at least come away from this moment knowing something. She didn’t ask him about his work however, and instead asked him where he’d moved from.
‘East Village,’ he said. ‘Born in East Village. Work has taken me every place I can think of, but this has always been home.’
‘And you’re out surveying your new neighborhood?’
The man smiled, nodded. ‘Yes, surveying my new neighborhood,’ he replied, and then once again he took a step forward and extended his hand. ‘David,’ he said, ‘David Quinn.’
Annie instinctively wiped her hand on her pants before extending it in return. ‘Annie O’Neill,’ she said.
‘And this is your
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