Books and Bullets
@angelcrawly
Azir loved the sound of rain hitting the window. The way it pattered so elegantly but managed to entirely drown out all other noises, including the noises of one’s own mind. It made it quite easy to do busywork in the bookshop, covered with as many large windows as it were. And for what it didn’t drown out, his radio in the corner played some quiet jazz. One book to this shelf, one book to the next-- the curly blonde man worked with cleaning up his shop, not minding any customers. Not like there often were any.
His family may have been in this area of London for generations, and perhaps it had once been popular. But times changed. Different areas of cities became more crime-ridden. And, as of the past few years, Azir had found his customers dwindled. He had enough to pay rent, and he hadn’t anyone taking the books he loved most of all, so it had all worked out for him so far. As long as he had books to read and food to eat, he wouldn’t mind being alone most nights.
Once he set the final book into place in a little corner of the first floor, he was satisfied with himself. All cleaned. No dust, no loose books, everything right in its place, as it should be. And the night was still young, a mere seven o’clock. With the chilly Autumn rain, he had half a mind to doubt any customers coming in for the rest of it, so the plump-cheeked, soft-bellied man--perhaps half a man--sat down in his big, bulky reading chair in the Eastern corner of the bookshop and opened up the book he’d have been engrossed in as of late- Les Prophéties, the prophecies of Nostredamus. Quite an interesting read, really. What silly little men of the past, believing they could predict the future.