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"It's a god-awful sight."
Lisa ran her fingers delicately along the worn and weathered spines as she walked. She looked over at her cat, Leo, sitting perfectly perched next to a display of a collection of poems by Emily Brontë.
His amber eyes stared at her, listless and uninterested. He brought a gray paw up to his mouth and then turned his attention to that. Lisa smiled, more to herself she supposes and continued talking.
"No one reads books anymore."
Her parents ran a bookstore, while our living area was placed on the floor above it. The building was nothing fancy, nothing large. We owned a corner spot and a bustling city street. It wasn't the prettiest and most modern place to be, like the local library that opened up a few minutes away. There were no barcodes, no solid-colored chairs, and crisp white furniture.
"No one reads books anymore..." Her voice took a softer tone.
This place seemed aged and musky. Furniture was mismatched and the books that lined every inch of wall and floor made the store feel too cramped. Lighting was dim, her parents had invested their money only in incandescents. It was completely unethical, but they said that fluorescents ruined the mood of the reader. They hung down from the ceiling, a detail people might find as stylish, but it was simply for practical reasons. It was easier for us to reach them if they were lower. On clear days, Lisa often relied on the sunlight streaming through the windows.
"Just the thought saddens my heart."
Regardless of the bad light and feeling of claustrophobia, Lisa always enjoyed this place. She found comfort in the yellowed pages and faded covers around her. During summers she'd sit on the floor with a fan beside her, reading through pages of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. In the winter she'd fix herself a large cup of tea in the backroom and curl up in one of the armchairs, engrossed in Ernest Hemingway and Victor Hugo. And on rainy nights like tonight, She wanted to fall asleep to the sound of her mother's voice reading me Aesop's Fables.
"They prefer to read stories of fifteen-year-old girls in high school romances."
Lisa pursed her lips in disapproval and leaned against the register counter.
"Or even so, stories like that are often written by fifteen-year-old girls. Stories about boys various boys falling in love with a single female lead and her falling in love with the arrogant and handsome athlete simply for the fact he toys with her emotions and has a great outward appearance."
Lisa lightly crossed her arms and stared pensively at the wooden floor.
"It really is a god-awful sight, Leo."
"How would you fall in love with a guy then?"
The voice started her and she jumped from the counter, standing straight with her muscles tensed. Lisa had thought she was here all alone, she felt herself blush at the thought of someone hearing every word she had said. A boy with wet black hair matted against his face and a damp jacket walked out from one of the higher bookshelves. His brown eyes looked at her in apology and then looked at the floor. He stammered.
