It was the tenth straight day I’d come to the bookstore. I was on my third unpaid-for book. I took a seat in my usual spot. She was there again. She faced the bookshelf. She had her elbows propped on the second shelf, holding her book open. Her right calf was over her left shin. The right foot tapped out a frenetic rhythm. Seven-eight time maybe? Long blonde hair fell in loose curls down her indigo dress. It swayed in unison with her beating foot and she brushed it away from her face whenever she turned the page. Two white sandals lay together neatly beside her feet. Ass like an upside down heart. Two men walked by, checked her out, and nodded favorably to each other. Two minutes later, they walked by again. She didn’t react. Good, she’s not going to play their game, is she? What’s she reading? She’s not in the romance section. Can’t talk to girls there anyway. Heads all up in lustclouds and shit. Don’t waste your luck. No, she’s in the fiction section. Looks like she’s in the R’s. Who’s a good R author? Can’t think. Roald Dahl? That’d be in the Ds, idiot. Hopefully it’s something good.
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