New sunlight streams through the glass window, a scant eight minutes and some odd seconds old. It manages to batter its way through the grime-coated glass, providing a slant for motes to swirl along on their way to the tiles. When the unwary motes finally elect settle, they would be camouflaged by the color of the tiles but not by the grout that bound them all together. The grout is what betrays the floor as being far older than the sunlight, carrying the patina of countless footsteps.
The walls that the sunlight creeps along each cycle are likewise weathered. Warm and gentle the sun may seem just now, seasons of it have scorched the white walls and wooden shelving. Should the furniture ever be moved, the pieces would leave behind shadows of their shadows. It was a silent testament of how long they had stood sentry, carefully cradling books of all sorts on any surface that might be worth holding them inside the shop.
Some footsteps -most footsteps- have been human, though it has been some days since any had paced along the corridors of the shop defined by the windows and walls. It was those guilty footsteps, caked with winter mud, summer sands that have brought age more quickly to the commonly-traveled lanes inside the shop, searching for their literary soul mate of the moment.
Scattered with the motes and evidence of hard wear and weather are light, glinting strands of orange and cream fur. This is the result of the current sole resident of the shop, a shaggy ginger tom. The evidence of him is strewn widely through the repository that is brimming with books of various size, color and subject matter. Though not remarkably large for a bookstore or for people, the area is more than large enough for him, plush pink paws traipsing lazily over the most settled of dust motes. He has spent much of his time here, and much of his time other places. But for the now, the ginger tom is here, shepherding the slates of sunlight across the floor.
The shop's front door claims that they would be open Monday through Saturday, eight o'clock sharp to a dull six o'clock evening time. Despite these promises the door remains locked on a sunny Tuesday, but that is of no surprise to the ginger tom. He has lounged in the silence for three days without Old Ray coming to refresh his water or scrap dish, with the odd interruption of people trying to open a door that is sealed to them. "On vacation," the humans would say.
"Not so," the ginger tom would retort with a laughing twitch of his tail. But no one notices the twitch.
Many days had Old Ray spent with his books, enjoying the thrill of the hunt as he stalked this edition or that to add to his collection. This is what drew the ginger tom at first, made the tom acknowledge Old Ray. Old Ray understood the hunt. And though he understood nothing else, that in itself was enough. Likewise, the ginger tom never understood Old Ray and how he could surrender the prey he had so tenaciously brought to his home. And surrender he did, with the ring of the old register and a smile at the people who made the purchase.
But Old Ray had not set the register to ring for days. The ginger tom paced by a half open book that had tumbled heedless to the floor, pausing in his leisurely locomotion. Sniffing at the crinkled pages, folded beneath the heavy binding like a multitude of broken wings. The last place where Old Ray's scent of spice, his favorite cologne lingered, both on the pages and on the tom's extended whiskers. The knowledge of what happened to Old Ray was there. Scent, soul and somebody lost along the vellum-filled volumes. They took bits of time from people, bits of their hearts. And eventually. . . possibly one day. . . their whole selves.
Many people's stories end with abrupt lines like 'cause of death: Car accident.' Others listed in familiar obituaries that the tom often lounged on are more like 'quietly, surrounded by loved ones.' Old Ray's would be something different, a secret from the people who could not feel the warm breezes wafting through the shop's pages and ruffled the silver hairs on the ginger tom who would shortly go his own way. Once he was done shepherding the shop's sunlight.
"And he was never heard from again."
The shop's front door claims that they would be open Monday through Saturday, eight o'clock sharp to a dull six o'clock evening time. Despite these promises the door remains locked on a sunny Tuesday, but that is of no surprise to the ginger tom. He has lounged in the silence for three days without Old Ray coming to refresh his water or scrap dish, with the odd interruption of people trying to open a door that is sealed to them. "On vacation," the humans would say.
"Not so," the ginger tom would retort with a laughing twitch of his tail. But no one notices the twitch.
Many days had Old Ray spent with his books, enjoying the thrill of the hunt as he stalked this edition or that to add to his collection. This is what drew the ginger tom at first, made the tom acknowledge Old Ray. Old Ray understood the hunt. And though he understood nothing else, that in itself was enough. Likewise, the ginger tom never understood Old Ray and how he could surrender the prey he had so tenaciously brought to his home. And surrender he did, with the ring of the old register and a smile at the people who made the purchase.
But Old Ray had not set the register to ring for days. The ginger tom paced by a half open book that had tumbled heedless to the floor, pausing in his leisurely locomotion. Sniffing at the crinkled pages, folded beneath the heavy binding like a multitude of broken wings. The last place where Old Ray's scent of spice, his favorite cologne lingered, both on the pages and on the tom's extended whiskers. The knowledge of what happened to Old Ray was there. Scent, soul and somebody lost along the vellum-filled volumes. They took bits of time from people, bits of their hearts. And eventually. . . possibly one day. . . their whole selves.
Many people's stories end with abrupt lines like 'cause of death: Car accident.' Others listed in familiar obituaries that the tom often lounged on are more like 'quietly, surrounded by loved ones.' Old Ray's would be something different, a secret from the people who could not feel the warm breezes wafting through the shop's pages and ruffled the silver hairs on the ginger tom who would shortly go his own way. Once he was done shepherding the shop's sunlight.
"And he was never heard from again."
"The shadows of their shadows." Justin was right. You write good. ;)
ReplyDeleteThanks for that, Joe! :) Sometimes it's borderline shocking what you can come up with before your first cup of coffee in the morning!
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