It was so cold inside the bookstore. The lighting was cozy, but the lack of openings on the walls did not allow him to guess the color of the sky outside the mall, which separated him from reality ― something that the clock alone was unable to resolve.
The tall bookshelves made of dark wood felt good to the touch and were nice to look at, but when he touched them he had the impression that he should be wearing warmer clothes. The speed at which people were walking around caused some discomfort. Most of them were customers coming into the store, approaching the clearly-labeled shelves and, after a little bit of effort to find what they were looking for, walking back to the cashier with the object of their interest in their hands. There were only one or two people who, like him, browsed through the shelves without asking for help from a salesperson and the computer terminal. He had given it a try once, but if the young girl didn’t even know how to type the name he had mentioned, how could he exchange some ideas with her about the author and his work? He’d better look for it himself while walking around aimlessly.
He rarely had some downtime, but the electricity company had scheduled the power to be out, so going back home would be inconvenient. Could you imagine what a nightmare it would be to spend hours without the AC?
Daydreaming about recent and past events, he took advantage of the book collection available to him and picked a book about the work of translators, fueling his vague dream of one day leaving his job and retiring to a quiet space with his pages and ideas. Working as a translator was something that started to take shape as an alternative to keep paying his mortgage in case he had the guts to walk away from accounting.
While daydreaming about it, he usually didn’t consider his limited knowledge of other languages and the lack of time spent abroad that could somehow help him when a slang would put him against the wall. He took a stroll through the chapters without stopping at any of them.
His will to read wasn’t strong enough, so he was content to just sit and watch life before his eyes. Still, he didn’t let go of his hardcover book―an impeccable edition. He recalled the careful handwriting he used to sign the books he received as a gift from the time he was a child. Back to the house where he grew up, settled on the porch, he enjoyed the quietness of not having to give orders or complete any tasks. The mild temperature he found there made him understand that his actions were unnecessary, whether at work or in maintaining his little eccentricities―the way he folded his shirts or organized his books on the bookshelf.
Sitting back at the old chair, he closed his eyes to enjoy his recent discoveries. The book fell to the ground and woke him up, but it didn’t make his smile fade upon remembering the dream he was having: He was a boy and enjoyed a multi-color swirl lollipop while his mother watered the garden where the lilies started to bloom.
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