Round One:

(from This World to That Which Is to Come)

No one would have believed, in the final hour of the shop being open, on a weak sunlit Sunday afternoon, the man with whom I have corresponded with for over a year , the man with whom I have exchanged thousands of words , the man who has sent me strands of beautiful imagery and intoxicating ideas, would cross over my threshold. But step into my world he did.

Imagine, if you will, a transient creature, overhung on a Sungday, blearied from late night imbibing and little sleep; steeped in omphaloskepsis and reeking of melancholy, perched behind a tiny counter contemplating the futility of her existence. Waiting for home time but not particularly looking forward to it.

Allow me to present the bare boned facts : The shop was dead, that is to say it was empty save for me and my thoughts. I barely looked up as the bell jangled and jarred my already sorry-I’ll-never-drink-again-head.

” There’s a couple more rooms upstairs ” I mantra-d to my final customer as he walked past me and up the dog-leg staircase which leads to the middle floor.

I have little idea how long he spent up there or what he thought as he was in the tiny room full of books. I have since wondered whether he looked out of the window , over the rooftops and away into the fields. Whether he trailed fingertips over spines or stood still and undecided. I sat in ignorance, head inside a flickering screen , sucked inside thoughts of being else where, of meetings by the sea and stolen moments.

When he returned he was carrying a book. Bunyan’s in blue and gold. I may have managed a faint smile . I remember his fumbled fingers amongst my mumbled words , a jacket and a gentle voice.

” How does £3 sound ? “.