Bookstore Shelves

The bookstore. A myriad of lettered pages packed between two advertisement boards and wedged into innumerous shelves taller than your head. Sometimes, sitting here, seemingly lost in my own lettered pages, I wonder if the bookstore is more of a myriad of people wedged into shelves, waiting to be picked out or noticed.

I’ve entered the bookstore a hundred times, purchased my novel, collected my iced mocha with extra whipped cream, and heaved my canvas, Monet tote down on the chair opposite me in my favorite table by the window, where I can still enjoy the outdoors no matter the weather. It’s the little things in life, you know?

My spot has other upsides, too. I can see things. My back to a corner, I have the advantage of viewing everyone in the bookstore and street around me, even if they can’t return the favor. In fact, they rarely do. I remain completely unnoticed by the world.

The bookstore… a shop where I can read the lines of people as well as books.

My fingers adorn the newest edition of The Secret Garden, covered in swirly, gold-embedded flowers like a fairy decorated its entirety. An old-fashioned taste, but I never called myself a novelty-seeker.

Diagonal from me, in the open expanse of the bookstore entrance, there is some sort of new-release display, artistically arranged in all sorts of eye-catching shelves and posters. Call me a pessimist, but I’ve never been fond of such attempts to grab my purse and sell me with simple pleasures.

I’m supposed to be reading and my eyes flit aimlessly over the lines, but I can’t help lift them up often, to glance around the store at the faces who keep me company today.

Over in the sci-fi section, the blonde guy who always wears a black, graphic T is selecting another space drama. He’s with a friend, some girl with straight black hair curled at the end. They’re both absorbed in their own back covers, though she has a stack of books already and he’s got only one.

Stuck with her nose deep in a rom-com, a woman with red hair, a flowery-skirt, and a spring blouse stands in the romance section, torn over which of her three selections should be her newest slow-burn… or maybe all of them?

And exploring with intensity every spine that grabs her attention, a younger woman grazes the YA fantasy aisle as if her reading life is the only thing keeping her from complete inner mayhem.

I sip my mocha with a disinterest in my eyes I deeply feel, disappointed in the bookstore variety this afternoon and hoping for someone a bit more interesting to captivate my long-winded attention.

As if the world hears my thoughts, the doorbell chimes pleasantly in front of me.

Two girls walk in. One has short brown hair and wears the same Monet painting as I have on my canvas tote. Her friend, a blonde adorned in pink, I can immediately tell is the browsing sort.

The new-release display catches both their attention rather quickly. The pink-girl draws in a gasp.

“Oh my gosh, it’s come out… I had no idea. Brit, have you read any of these? They’re the absolute best.”

“Bruh, yessss. I love that author.”

“I have to get it, I’ve been waiting for ages.” She pulls one from its place on the fancy display and starts flipping through it. “Oh my gosh, Brit, we should both get one. We can read it together! Like, talk it over and stuff… it would be the besttt!”

“Um,” the Monet girl hesitates. She glances at the advertisement above her. The price is $17.89. She slips down her own copy and mules over the back and inside sleeve of the dust-jacket, wetting her appetite in the synopsis and reviews. I can read her indecision.

“Okay, yeah, sure.” She mutters.

“Yesss, Brit! Soo excited.” Her friend tucks the book into her arm as she makes a headway for the YA aisle.

The Monet girl stares down at the cover of her copy. Turns it around and checks the price again. Glances up where her friend is already finding a new selection on her to-read list. She’s torn.

My phone dings. It’s my bookclub groupchat talking about some pizza night they’re planning. They want everyone’s order. I respond, check the details, tag it on my calendar, and put the phone down again. It’s been five minutes.

The Monet girl is still holding the new-release. She and her friend are at the check-out counter. The clerk rings the price up and she inserts her debit card with a smile. But, she leaves the store biting her lip behind her friend’s back.

Another five minutes pass. I’ve managed to turn two pages of The Secret Garden, but my eyes lift up again as some movement out the store window catches my peripheral. A guy wearing a brown coat and leather Oxfords jogs by and I’m surprised to find him stepping lightly into the bookstore, breathing a bit heavy from his exercise, though why he’d be running wearing an outfit like that I couldn’t begin to decide.

He stops right in front of the door and gazes around, even nods at me politely, to my immediate dismay, trying to figure out which way to begin his search. I can tell he’s not accustomed to bookstores and almost begin to pity him, yet, suddenly, his eye, too, falls upon the display shelf and he quickly grins in a brisk, thankful sort of way. His feet hastily carry him over, he picks up a copy, and moves towards the checkout counter. I’m actually surprised at how fast he accomplished his browsing goals.

“My wife loves this series,” he explains to the clerk, who smiles automatically, lacking really any true emotion, at being addressed. “I’ve been rushing around all evening trying to find a bookstore that still had it in stock. Anniversaries… you know the type.”

His words sound apologetic and he lets them trail off with a nervous laugh, but his face doesn’t carry the same expression. In fact, I almost think he might start shining with physical radiance if he doesn’t stop grinning so widely.

As he sweeps by again, the bookstore bag swishing with that satisfying plastic paper sound against his pants, I dig my head into my book, to avoid eye contact again of any sort at all costs. His voice breaks through the window, however, and when I dare to lift my gaze, he’s walking across the street with the bookstore bag in one hand and a bouquet of yellow and white roses in the other. I wonder if his wife will be pleased or pick up on the possible last-minute dinner preparations in the first three minutes.

My mocha at that instant calls to me and I sit sipping it while smiling to myself. The whipcream has dissolved a bit into the coffee, which is a little disheartening, but it still gives the creamy flavor that we all love it for and I satisfy myself with that. The red-haired woman with the flowered skirt has finally decided on her slow-burn romance and moves towards the counter. The younger woman in the YA section seems to be finished, as well, with a pile of about four titles stacked in her arms. They meet at the counter, and the red-haired woman, at the unexpected face, smiles in a surprised sort of way.

“Julia?”

“Hi… Anna…?”

“The world is small after all! I can’t believe I didn’t notice you over there. How have you been? How’s your Mom?”

Julia drops silent, shrugs a little non-comitally. “Good. Busy, as always.”

The red-haired woman lays her book on the counter for the clerk and scrambles for polite words or questions. “It’s been forever… What have ya’ll been up to? How’s the marketing position going?”

A sudden sad or angry sort of energy washes over Julia and she shakes her head with a bitter sort of slumping of her thin shoulders. “Um, yeah, no, it’s not going, actually. I got fired. Honestly, I can’t believe I put up with my boss for so long. He was going to be rid of me at some point or another, I always felt it.”

“Oh my gosh, Jules, I’m so sorry. How long ago?”

“Yesterday, actually.”

“Oh, girl… that’s harsh.” There’s a break in their conversation. The woman pays her bill, trying to come up with someway better to reply. Finally, she asks, “What are your plans now?”

“Buy all the books I’ve been pushing aside reading since I got hired and figure out my next step, I suppose.”

The red-haired woman doesn’t look half as pleased as Julia does at this statement, but she turns to leave while muttering her hopes that Julia will take care of herself and find a new job she loves.

As soon as she’s out the jingling door, Julia’s face changes quite a bit. The smile fades and she sighs as drops her great stack on the counter. I recognize her bottommost novel. It’s the new-release. I, also, recognize the feeling. Rejected, a little lost, and trying to re-find yourself after hours of hard work and too many late nights.

The bookstore falls silent as she takes her own leave. The blonde guy and his friend whisper something back and forth and I finish off my mocha as another set of group texts come through. Everyone thumbing-up everyone else's texts, most likely.

I read them over, glance at my watch, send my own set of hearts and lol's, and close The Secret Garden. It slips into my canvas tote and I stand, dropping the empty paper coffee cup in the trashcan on my way towards the door.

Or maybe not.

Towards the display.

With a tinge of hypocrisy, my finger trails over the different piles and shelves on the table until it finally finds the copy that speaks to me. I take it with me towards the clerk.

“No relationships or jobs for me… this one’s for a book club meeting.” I jest with a humorous expression, needing her to know I didn’t just pick up this book out of simple curiosity after watching the last three people fall into its advertisement traps. Sometimes, like the Monet girl, the guy with his wife, or Julia who lost her job, my purchasing is directed by something beyond my own desires. She returns my smile with a little laugh, sharing my joke, or pretending to, at least, maybe feeling my need for connection.

I pay. Take my book. Drop it into my Monet bag for it to sit quietly beside The Secret Garden and walk towards the door.

While I pass the display table again, my smile fades. A tinge of regret fills my chest and I know, deep inside, I’m disappointed with myself.

I know, in the arc of it all, that I’m just another person on the bookstore shelf, waiting to be noticed.

For we all want the same thing, in the end.

We all feel like we must be known and accepted by the world.

It’s our choice whether we believe the lie or not.