A little bookshop I went to one time
Towering shelves and books older than my dad, stacks of newer books on the ground, old worn couches, everything is pine green and chocolatey brown, little tables and whispered conversations, low yellow tinted lighting, the smell of new books and the smell of old books, the cafe next door, the smell of fresh bread and cookies wafting through the doorway, the creaky hardwood floors, the crack of opening a book that hasn't been opened in years- the scent of dust and coffee on the air, the creaky staircase all warped and worn leading to the second level. The old fashioned typewriter, the uneven floor, the tapes and records. Music floating on the air from old speakers in the corners of the room. and the big glass windows out front it has a deep violet cloth draped behind to keep the light out, the little bell that rings when the door opens. The 2 cats lounging on the shelves and stalking the floors, the little wrought iron tables outside, the chair on the uneven concrete so it wobbles and creaks. The door mat that used to say something but now you can't read it, the little kids running around being shushed by impatient parents. The man wandering silently knowing just where to step, putting the books back in their own little home, everything where it should be.
