When I'm feeling down, something I think about is a bookshop. It isn't any sort of bookshop. It's my bookshop. If I were to own any sort of store, it would be this bookshop.
It would be on a small street, probably in a city. But it would be a city with character, and charm. Even if the air I breathed were to smell acrid and unhealthy, in that street, the smell would be cleaner. The bookshop would be historic; ancient, in some eyes. It would have a peculiar Victorian feel to it, and an almost pinkish colour. It would be three storeys, rectangular and really quite skinny. You'd have to walk up a few steps towards the doorway. When you'd look around you'd notice nothing in particular, nothing too special about this little bookshop. You may notice the brick, and slowly decaying look to it. You may notice the intricacies in the archways around the windows. The windows would be large and deceiving, hiding away the true nature of the bookstore. It would be plotting, plodding, toying with your ideas.
You'd shrug nonchalantly, and touch the door knob. The door would be understated yet grand. The carvings, with detail. You'd see frost on the glass and feel your fingers numbing, and remember just how cold it was, and shuffle inside quickly. Not bothering to see what the bookshop looks like until you close the door, you step around and gape. It's lured you in. Surprised, enticed, delighted you. The warmth tingles on your skin and in your peripheral vision, you see a small fire going.
The bookshop is now another world. The air is stuffy, warm, comforting. You look around, and not a soul is in site. You delve head first into the books. The books. They encircle you, entangle you, trap you in their embrace, just like they did the building. The books - they're everywhere. All you see is books. Piled up timidly, from the bottom to the top on the room. Old, new, used, coloured, bright, dull, hardcover, paperback. The options are endless. And you'd just twirl again and again and again, taking in the colours and insurmountable amount of books and not know where to go first.
You decide to explore a little. You feel like a child again, on a new adventure not knowing where you'll end up. You tip toe delicately across the room towards where the fire was. As you do, you watch the books open up into a larger area. The fire is going. It's delirious, magnificent, glamorous. There are two large, plush couches dancing around it, coaxing you into comfort. Before you do, you realise a girl's there. Only quite young. Her hair dangles down her back and dances with the fire as if they were brother and sister. Her head is down; she's reading. On she goes in silence, just reading on that windowsill. You're enchanted by her. The complete oblivion to everything around her. Her head dips up, and she stares out onto the street. It's dark out there. Twilight has just set, and the old style street lights have burnt up. She sighs, and you leave her.
As you walk back towards the large books, you hear a small crash above your head. That's odd. Your eyes slide over the surroundings, and you notice a swirly staircase peaking through. Impulsively, you go up. What should you expect? Not surprisingly, there are more books there. They're more diluted in the fabric of this atmosphere. Spindly tables and chairs cover the ground, with a small coffee station spurting stains everywhere. Books are precariously placed near the balcony that you now notice. It overlooks the whole store. You hear another bang, louder this time. Spinning to the persecutor, you see someone trying to clean up another coffee stain. She looks at it with sparkles in her eyes, amused at her own misfortune. As her head turns upwards, she notices you and squeals a little. Sorry, she says, I thought that we had closed up. She looks down over the balcony, like a vulture waiting to attack. Juliet, she squeals, Juliet close up already.
She looks at me and continues cleaning. How strange. I hear a tingle enveloping the store. It's closed now, Juliet sings back sweetly. I watch, and she sits herself back in the windowsill. You can still look around if you want, the lady says to me, I'm just cleaning up. You nod, dazed. You walk slowly down the staircase, becoming dizzy after walking in circles. You go through each of the books, carefully, slowly.
Time has passed. How much? You don't know. Footsteps on the metal staircase rattle you out of the reverie. Sorry, she says, do you want any tea? You nod, vacantly. The lady nods, and you follow her. Up, up, up the steps you go. You watch her as she walks towards a bookcase - one of the only ones in the store. She manoeuvres some books around and opens a latch. A hallway entreats. Do you mind if it's in my apartment? She asks, It's just, well I've packed everything else up for the day. I nod, and look.
p.s. This sort of turned creative-y by the end, so sorry about that. The descriptions are basically true to what I'd love a bookshop to look like.