The room is furnished with tables and chairs, couches and end tables, rugs, and a row of stools in front of the counter where I am sitting. Works of art hang on the walls in the form of photographs, written words, and paintings. Girls wearing rain boots and sweaters walk in from the adjoining bookstore and I stand up to return my volume to its shelf.
There is a wide selection here that would be overwhelming if these were anything but books, but all I feel is a quiet joy for all the possibilities. The elderly man at the register says hello to me with a smile and I wonder about his story. Age is beautiful if one accepts it gracefully, and he has. This place is his and has been for years. The building is old and many of the books are, too, but there is no shortage of customers. Most of his money is made from the coffee shop, where people take his books to read and then return them. Occasionally someone will find one they want to purchase, but that isn't how the usual system works. All of the regulars expect to find their favorites still on the shelf when they come back. I know that mine always are.
As I walk back with a new adventure in my hand, I anticipate where it will take me. Eventually my feet will take me out of the door and into the rain, but I can avoid that thought for now. Until then, there is warmth and coffee and art and people and a story waiting to be discovered.
