He's chatting with a customer in an otherwise empty shop. Once she leaves I'll go in. I prefer it quiet.
I love my visits here. The books cost no more than a pound or two, and sometimes the very latest titles are sat there waiting for the right person.
"Good morning," he says once I'm through the door. On the counter in front of him sits a stack of new donations, some handed in by the woman just before me.
"Hello," I say. A nervous flutter now settles in my chest.
My usual routine is to browse the CRIME & DETECTIVE shelves first, then the SCI-FI, next the CLASSICS & POETRY. I'll often finish up by searching out my favourite authors in the alphabetically sorted general fiction section.
Today I'm blessed to find a school poetry book. It's cloth-bound with a label pasted inside that lists pupils' names, the forms they were in and the dates they held the book - all written in deep blue and black inks that the years haven't yet faded. It's in beautiful condition and seems to date back to the 1950s or '60s.
"That's 70p please," he says, "or if you prefer, fourteen shillings."
A wave of what I take to be nostalgia surges through me, steals my breath away.
"How much?" I manage to reply. I heard him fine, just want to hear him say it again.
"Eh, 14/- to you, madame."
"I think you'll find it only says 10/6 on the back cover," I tease.
He smiles a beautiful smile and I hand him my coins, all the while wondering how many other women have wanted to kiss those lips like I do right now.
