THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSHOP

The old doorbell rings upon entry. Remarkable how the sound fits the whole and at the same time has a disruptive effect on the atmosphere of the place. The smell of  books, fallen into oblivion, embraces me like a dusty blanket while I walk along the wooden counter in the direction of the stairs.

The owner no longer looks up when I enter his store, always on Saturday one hour before lunchtime. I consider myself part of the inventory as well, while I stroll the mezzanine floor: the area where the newest additions are displayed. Every week I allow myself an hour of derivation of the present with knowledge and thoughts of others. Writers who all thought they had something to say. Writers who sought an audience but somehow that same audience left them here, waiting for re-approval.

My hand slides like a scanner over the stack of new acquisitions. As if it can feel whether the content of the stack suits me or not. Once a month I find something to my liking. Not that it matters: the cabinet at home is stacked with writings that I have not opened yet. But Saturday's pre-lunch time ritual: that's what counts. And the fixed part of this ritual.

I could find it blindfold: the third aisle, second last cabinet, at eye level . 'My' book, hidden by my own hands behind irrelevant literature. Six months ago, I found it by chance. I was not searching, it seemed more like it was looking for me. But it grabbed me in her frank ways. I read parts of her, secretly. Hidden in the third aisle. Each week a chapter. Each week, a time frame in which I escaped from reality and floated away on her words. Her, as this book was written by a 'her' .

I looked for the writer on the Internet. She was deceased, but someone had taken the trouble to capture some information about her. Only four paragraphs and a photo . Black and white, made with magnesium flash light . A lady with a high buttoned blouse and a hat. A lady with eyes that spoke volumes. The written information was almost in denial with what her eyes told . Eyes that read me and devoured me through her book.

I never had the courage to make 'her' mine and take her home with me. She did not fit on the same shelf with others in my living room. She would throw my life upside down. No, best to keep her tucked away,  safely behind the broad-shouldered backs of non-literature, waiting for my next visit . Thus the ritual became even more important, surrounded by unspoken mystery.

I longed for her, I had to restrain myself not to attract attention. A few steps; I was almost there. My hand went behind the row of books , searching for 'her'. It felt left and right, as my heart skipped a beat.

It was gone . 'She' was gone.