In Between The Pages

Chapter One: The Day That I Bought It

I've always loved antique bookshops. There's just something about them; something magical that makes you feel like you have been transported through a time portal from the hustle and bustle of the 21st century to the quaint life of the 1800s. Maybe it's the dust that coats every shelf and seemingly suspends itself in the air. Maybe it's the stained-glass windows, whose thick panes let in the most beautiful shades of slanted sunlight. Or maybe it's the sweet, musky aroma of the tarnished pages that fill each spine. Yet whatever it is, it is something that makes me routinely stop in every Friday afternoon after a long week of work.

Garamond's Rare and Used Books has the prime location, located just an avenue and a few blocks down from my office on Madison. On beautiful summer afternoons like this particular one, I'll take my time strolling from the office to Garamond's, soaking up every ounce of the sun in a vain attempt to get some color on my face. Before arriving, I make my routine stop at the pretzel vendor on the corner of 86th and Park and buy a jumbo, soft pretzel. It's a naughty post-work habit and one I don't see coming to an end any time soon. Life's short, so eat NYC Pretzels while you can. That should be my mantra, along with "What's the point of getting an unsalted pretzel?"

Ryan always gets an unsalted pretzel.

I finally arrive at the front entrance and push the door open. The familiar bell jingles, its welcoming clang resonating off the oak walls. I take a deep inhale as I slowly walk inside, my nostrils vacuuming up every ounce of that wonderful, book aroma.

"Ah, Jennifer. Welcome back!"

I smile back at Dennis, who grins at me from behind the cash register. Dennis is an English major at NYU with shiny blonde hair and bright blue eyes that are magnified by the crooked, orb-like frames on his face. I always wonder why Garamond hired him because although he's likely one of the most amiable people in Manhattan, he knows as much about rare and used books as a cat understands calculus. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But you get the point.

"How was your week?" Dennis asks, taking a sip from his Starbucks.

"It was alright; same old, same old. We've been in the works creating a marketing segmentation plan for a new small business," I reply.

I walk slowly past one of the towering bookshelves, my fingers grazing lightly over the leather spines of the books that fill its shelves.

"What's the business?"

"It's a small coffee shop that opened by the park; family-owned and all. Called "Mr and Mrs Bean' because the couple's last name is Bean. Pretty ironic they own a coffee shop right?"

Dennis chuckles, taking another sip from his coffee. I continue to walk slowly across the shelf, my eyes skimming over the embellished titles of each leather spine. There is something so overwhelming yet so fascinating about the sheer volume of books that fill a bookstore. I somehow cannot seem to wrap my mind around the fact that even if I tried to dedicate the rest of my life to reading all of the books in this store, I couldn't even come close to doing so. There are so many books whose pages will never be opened. They will sit on the shelves, dust gradually accumulating on their spines as their pages slowly yellow with age. Words and ideas unspoken.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps from above and look up to see old Garamond himself coming down the rickety spiral staircase. His half-moon spectacles sparkle from the sunlight streaming through the windows as he smiles down at me.

"Good afternoon, Jennifer," he says, slowly waving his hand in the air.

I smile, walking toward the front counter as he descends.

"How are you doing today?" I ask.

"Just lovely," he replies, a grin spreading over his wizened face.