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.”

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