The Bookshop Owner – Part 1: Second-Hand
Mature & Silver·EN·1 min read·Published 2026-11-07, updated 2026-11-07·Part 1 of 2
"Nobody comes in here for poetry," said George.
"I did," said Alice.
"You came in for a crossword dictionary."
"I stayed for the poetry shelf."
George, sixty-two, the owner, laughed. He was tall, stooped and gentle, with round glasses and a cardigan that had lost two buttons, standing behind the counter of a bookshop in Dunedin that smelled of dust, vanilla and old glue. Alice, fifty-seven, a retired teacher in a rain-damp coat, had walked in out of the cold one wet afternoon and not quite walked out again.
By the second week she was helping him shelve. By the third she was making the tea. The shop was a maze of tall wooden cases and narrow aisles, with a ladder on wheels and a tabby cat called Dickens asleep in the window. Rain fell on the street outside, and inside the lamp glowed gold.
"I write a little," George admitted one evening, putting a worn green notebook on the counter. "Nothing good. Never shown anyone."
"May I?"
"It's very bad."
She read the first page in silence. The second. Her eyes were bright when she looked up. "George. These are lovely."
"You're being kind."
"I'm a retired English teacher. I'm never kind about poems." She smiled. "Read one to me."
He did, in a low, shy voice, a poem about a cold hallway and the first sound of someone coming home. When he finished, neither of them spoke.
"Alice," he said at last. "May I ask you something? It's not a poem."
"Yes."
"Would you have dinner with me?"
Continue the story: Part 2 – Marginalia.
Continue the story: Part 2 – Marginalia.
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Part 2 of 2: Marginalia · 2 min read
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