A Small Bookshop

Ranks of glossy printed editions squeezed into a concertina of space. The acrylic smell of new books is cordite to my nose. Then in softer contrast, the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed, a well used dust on dust-covers. A tactile nosegay of leather-bound classics. Fact or fiction, all are revelations revealed. The appeal of the alphabetically ordered, arrayed in an athenium of only passing inquiry. Movies have usurped many of these stories, as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books, and word of mouth accounts. I crouch and stretch in a confined alcove for a few volumes that have kept their obscure tales under cryptic wraps. I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf; speed-read my way through, read the blurbs and the last chapters, just in case I am ever asked.