@milleabhar
Caramel rarely comes into the city. Few and far between, actually -- she only comes for supplies she can’t find or create herself in the thick of the forest. It’s quite a walk aways, too. She doesn’t mind the city so much anymore, but she doesn’t like staying more than two nights. She feels so stifled here, the air cloying in her lungs. Today’s a relatively cool day; cradling a basket in her arm filled with crumpled money and other things. She carries the scent of butterscotch, honey gold eyes flickering over building signs and directions. It’s so loud here, too. Her senses are muffled by the sound of cars zooming by.
She’s looking for something very particular. A new baking book. Perhaps some little things, too. A gauzy dress is draped over her petite form, her free hand curling around the rustic handle-bar of the bookstore's front doors. Inside, she cranes her neck up, greeted with a stained glass sky-light -- dust and the smell of old books flutters in the air. Caramel makes a soft sound, long lashes batting.
Yet there’s no one at the front counter. She checks the time on her watch, humming curiously to herself. She didn’t come in early, did she? 11:30. No. She’s well past the opening hours. Her fingers trail over the spines of old books, informed eyes trickling over the faded words, lingering on the slight frayed texture sticking to the bottoms.
Her sandaled feet pad up the stairs, figuring she’d have better luck looking elsewhere for the clerk. There’s a man there, curled up on a gushy looking chair, soft and plush. Caramel brightens. He’s handsome, with gentle features and cool blue eyes, full lips, and a slanted jaw. “Hello,” she says softly. “Are you the owner? I’m looking for a book.”