returned to the front counter. Lily could have been mistaken, but she thought that he blushed now, too. She worked through his last boxes, mostly fiction, classics in trade paperback editions. She flipped through the pages—no underlining, no notes in the margins. Perfect. The rejects didn’t even fill one box. He would be getting a lot of books in trade or a decent amount of cash.
“Why are you selling your books? Are you moving?”
He folded his arms across his chest and appraised her.
“Are you always this nosy? They’re my books, if you’re thinking I stole them.”
Lily’s blush crept down her neck. She apologized for prying and focused on the books.
“I’m just clearing my shelves to make room. I’m not moving.”
She glanced up. He was smiling at her. Nearby a few shoppers lurked, perusing the shelves but really eavesdropping. In a shop this small, every conversation was public, and the introverted customers often eavesdropped. Lily knew this because she eavesdropped all the time herself. She pretended it was just the two of them and continued chatting while flipping through the books.
As she was finishing, a woman wearing a bike helmet came in to sell a handful of books from her backpack. The guy gathered up his empty boxes. No one did that. They just took their trade slips and left. And most people requested money, using their beloved books as a cash cow. Lily respected him for going for the book credit. It was twice as much as cash, after all, and who wouldn’t want more books?
Lily finished the transaction reluctantly, stamping his trade slip with “Capitol Books” and handing it to him along with the box of rejects.
“Can I donate them? And . . . how about a drink sometime?”
Behind him, the cyclist made a small thumbs-up gesture. Lily couldn’t believe her face could get hotter, but it did. “Sure,” she said, trying to ignore the woman.
“‘Sure’ I can donate the books or ‘sure’ you’ll have a drink with me?”
“Both.” She didn’t think she could blush any more, but the flush spread from her neck down her chest. They made plans and he left, leaving Lily completely unable to focus on the next seller’s books.
They met after work at the seedy bar next door. Politicians hunched around tables while scruffy street people cashed in their change at the bar. A few tumbleweeds wearing plaid shirts and work boots played pool in the back. Lily saw these kind of men on Colfax all the time—just passing through the plains, stopping in Denver to hook up with other drifters before heading on. The jukebox near the empty cigarette machine blared classic rock, the kind that didn’t offend any of the patrons. She would feel uncomfortable in the bar filled mostly with men if it weren’t for Daniel next to her. After he’d brought beers to their table, he told her that he worked in a bar downtown. “It’s nothing like this,” he laughed, looking over at the two men in plaid arguing loudly over the pool table. “It’s upscale.” He used his fingers to mark the undertone quotes around the word. It wasn’t long before they were discussing books.
“What are you reading now?” Daniel leaned toward her over the table.
Lily pulled a paperback copy of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas from her purse. Daniel scanned the back cover.
“I’ve never gotten into that whole Parisian expatriate myth.”
Lily grew indignant. “What do you mean, ‘myth’? These were real people, living real life, making real art. Writers!” She snatched the book back from him. He pushed his hand through his hair.
“I can tell you’re into it.” He smiled and Lily’s anger melted away.
“I am. I’ve read a lot about that time period. I love France. I did, anyway.”
“What changed that?”
Lily put the book back into her bag. Right about now she wanted a cigarette, but she’d quit and had vowed never to smoke again. Besides, smoking was forbidden in bars now. That made it easier. She
“Why are you selling your books? Are you moving?”
He folded his arms across his chest and appraised her.
“Are you always this nosy? They’re my books, if you’re thinking I stole them.”
Lily’s blush crept down her neck. She apologized for prying and focused on the books.
“I’m just clearing my shelves to make room. I’m not moving.”
She glanced up. He was smiling at her. Nearby a few shoppers lurked, perusing the shelves but really eavesdropping. In a shop this small, every conversation was public, and the introverted customers often eavesdropped. Lily knew this because she eavesdropped all the time herself. She pretended it was just the two of them and continued chatting while flipping through the books.
As she was finishing, a woman wearing a bike helmet came in to sell a handful of books from her backpack. The guy gathered up his empty boxes. No one did that. They just took their trade slips and left. And most people requested money, using their beloved books as a cash cow. Lily respected him for going for the book credit. It was twice as much as cash, after all, and who wouldn’t want more books?
Lily finished the transaction reluctantly, stamping his trade slip with “Capitol Books” and handing it to him along with the box of rejects.
“Can I donate them? And . . . how about a drink sometime?”
Behind him, the cyclist made a small thumbs-up gesture. Lily couldn’t believe her face could get hotter, but it did. “Sure,” she said, trying to ignore the woman.
“‘Sure’ I can donate the books or ‘sure’ you’ll have a drink with me?”
“Both.” She didn’t think she could blush any more, but the flush spread from her neck down her chest. They made plans and he left, leaving Lily completely unable to focus on the next seller’s books.
They met after work at the seedy bar next door. Politicians hunched around tables while scruffy street people cashed in their change at the bar. A few tumbleweeds wearing plaid shirts and work boots played pool in the back. Lily saw these kind of men on Colfax all the time—just passing through the plains, stopping in Denver to hook up with other drifters before heading on. The jukebox near the empty cigarette machine blared classic rock, the kind that didn’t offend any of the patrons. She would feel uncomfortable in the bar filled mostly with men if it weren’t for Daniel next to her. After he’d brought beers to their table, he told her that he worked in a bar downtown. “It’s nothing like this,” he laughed, looking over at the two men in plaid arguing loudly over the pool table. “It’s upscale.” He used his fingers to mark the undertone quotes around the word. It wasn’t long before they were discussing books.
“What are you reading now?” Daniel leaned toward her over the table.
Lily pulled a paperback copy of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas from her purse. Daniel scanned the back cover.
“I’ve never gotten into that whole Parisian expatriate myth.”
Lily grew indignant. “What do you mean, ‘myth’? These were real people, living real life, making real art. Writers!” She snatched the book back from him. He pushed his hand through his hair.
“I can tell you’re into it.” He smiled and Lily’s anger melted away.
“I am. I’ve read a lot about that time period. I love France. I did, anyway.”
“What changed that?”
Lily put the book back into her bag. Right about now she wanted a cigarette, but she’d quit and had vowed never to smoke again. Besides, smoking was forbidden in bars now. That made it easier. She
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