Journal 1

The tube stops and I get out.

Curving, the stairs lift me to the street.

Tile gives way to brick as hot thick air clears.

 

I readjust the bag over my shoulder, and step forward.

Counting the numbers,

One, two, three,

 

Eighty three, eighty four.

I can smell the books through the picture windows,

The meaty pages garnished with delicious black ink.

I open the door and take another deep breath.

 

From the counter, Frank looks up.

“Olivia, you’re late.”

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.