I find two books in an old timber book shop. Walked up two flights of stairs to get here and it smells of old pages. I like that.
I hand the two hardbacks to the elder man, hidden beneath a pisa of books.
He peers over his round bronze glasses “Charles Bukowski?”
“Yes” I reply
My mind begins to ponder of what stories lay in each of his grey hair strands, that lay all frazzled upon his head.
I’d like to know some.
“I like him too, he has a brilliant mind” he says.
I smile, take the books that he places into my palms ever so gently as if they bind golden.
“Where are your shoes?” he says
“I don’t have any”
“Oh well that’s okay” he replies, with a humble carelessness under his grin.
I thank him and leave.
Adding another story to one of his grey hair strands.