flawless

goodbye, old girl.

You intensely scan them all, at least what you were able to see between the gaps of the shelves. The paint was aged, the hues not as fresh, and embedded into the rustic walls. They were deep sage green, stems that formed out of ivies, all around. Not noticing yourself subconsciously walking through the rows of shelves, you find yourself in front of the bookkeeper's desk. Behind stood a young woman with fair skin and light brown eyes, and a smile that had a fine curve to it, like a crescent moon.

"Hi," she says, her voice innate with the silence a bookstore held, "Welcome to Mockingbird Books. My name is Ana, how may I help you?"

Slightly embarrassed at how her voice startled you out of your ivy-painted mirage, you gently smile back, "Just, looking around. Thanks."

Ana nods, organizing the assortment of postcards at the desk, "Of course, I'll be here if you have any questions."

With a quiet thank you for leaving your slightly parted lips, you wander towards the back of the shop, passing the assortment of lifestyle books you could really care less about. The last thing you wanted was to read how you were supposed to live life, not because you didnt believe in such a thing; but because it would show just how much of a fuck up you were. Poetry, erotica, greek mythology, classic literature. You stop.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

A book you've read countlessly before, you grasp with a subliminal hold. You stare at the cover, showing only half of a painted face. Not as you'd expect; vertically, so all features were shown. Rather, it was horizontal, with no eyes in sight. No sight in eyes.

You slowly walk back to the front, eyes glued to the walls. You were mesmerized by the paintings all over, as the ivy would somehow turn into hills, nightfall full of dragonflies stars as you further walked back. Small birds and butterflies here and there, with a touch of white lilies placed in each corner.

"I find myself staring at them for hours," you hear Ana say, her head placed on her hand as she leans onto the desk, finding your awe amusing, "My grandma, the previous owner, left me this store when she passed."

You do recall an elderly lady, who always wore the most intricate sweaters which practically fit as a dress with how short she was. She's a kind lady. She was a kind lady.

"The business was dying with her, hardly anyone came in. To be fair, the shop was an eyesore; the walls peeling and spiderwebs all over the doors. Almost closed down because of it. But, how she cherished this bookstore."

"It was one of my favorite places when I used to live here years ago," you mention, looking around, "I'm glad to see it still around, thank you. I'm sure she'd be very proud, it looks amazing."

"Yeah, well I definitely can't take all the credit. These two friends, practically god-sent, saved this store. The woman had good connections and was able to help with property tax and whatnot, while the male helped me make it look new."

Ana chuckles, "He's an extremely handsome artist, I couldn't decline his help. He's the one who painted the inside, I gave him complete artistic freedom..."

"Oh and get this, they did all of this for an old friend who apparently loved this place as much as my grandma did. Said they wanted it here for when she ever came back."

Your eyes and heart make the connection, and both freeze at the realization of it. Somehow, in every form possible, he appears. They all do – those old friends of yours.

Your mouth curls, and it almost feels as if tears want to form in your eyes, "Is that so," you begin, placing your book on the counter, "They're god-sent, indeed."