The One With The Bookstore.

Dear Lover,

I used to work in an independent bookstore.

And.

Despite the fact that the walls were a tad bright for my taste.

And the name was cringe-worthy.

(Even the owner thought so.)

It is my favorite bookstore in the world.

Sure.

The Tattered Cover Bookstore in Denver, Colorado.

Set in an old house with rooms upon rooms of comfy chairs.

And hidden corners.

Is quite lovely.

Sure, getting lost behind piles and miles of books.

In The Strand Bookstore in New York City is an adventure.

Sure, I'll never forget the smell.

And slight uprising of radicalism.

I felt stirring while in Seattle's Left Bank Books.

Sure, the Sam Wellers in Salt Lake City had such history.

And also had the woman pushing a stroller outside it's doors.

Who went out of her way to pick up a dirty sock off the side of the street to throw in the trash.

Nevertheless.

My little bookshop.

It's my shop around the corner.

From the sunny windows at the front of the shop.

To the jing-a-ling of the bell at the back of the office.

It's the desire to get there earlier than necessary.

And not wanting to leave until absolutely the last moment.

It's that feeling of turning my own set of keys in the lock.

And flipping over the homemade OPEN sign. 

Of switching on the stereo and slipping onto the wooden stool. 

It's bookshelf after bookshelf after bookshelf. 

It's The Bookworm painting by Carl Spitzweg that hangs in one of the corners. 

It's working Harry Potter Book Releases with lightning bolts scribbled on your forehead.

It's where I first imagined up The Forgotten Fables.

And someday.

I'd like to open up one of my own.

You should know that we probably won't make any money.

So we'll have to sleep in a Murphy bed in the back office.

And eat our breakfast.

And sip our tea.

From the window ledges.

Being careful not to knock down any displays.

And tap our feet on the sienna and brown checkered tiles.

When our favorite songs come on the radio.

And lean against the Harlequin section of the bookshelves.

When we're being particularly saucy.

And we can play eenie-meenie-miney-mo each night.

To decide which book we'll fall asleep to reading.

And we'll never tell any of our patrons to shush.

Or quiet down.

Because shushing is for libraries.

Love,

Me.