The new-ish bookstore in our neighborhood is neat and well-organized, with wide aisles and a selection that speaks to a thoughtful and interesting mind, and Katie and I both quickly enter that sort-of-somnambulism with which frequent denizens of bookstores are quite familiar - drifting from shelf to overstuffed shelf, pulling interesting titles and leafing through them with deep concentration, only to replace them and repeat in long periods of silent, rapturous reverie.
The young man and his son at the front counter are wrapping up their visit with the purchase of a couple of books from the dollar shelves, and the man asks, “Okay if I pay with a card?”
The total is only a couple bucks, and the proprietor asks him if he lives in the neighborhood, which he does, so he shrugs and replies with a smile, “Eh, just take ’em and come back later when you’ve got some cash.”
Katie, upon hearing this exchange, catches my eye and whispers, “Okay, officially best bookstore ever.”
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