Pic Courtsey: canvassnap.blogspot.com
He ran his index finger over the spines of the myriad books which were kept on the rack and picked up one. He then flipped through its pages by habit, fingers avoiding a paper cut, coming to the back cover to read more about it. The stories were promising, fresh in content and perspective. It would not drain him out, he knew. This was it. The author, however was new to him. He opened the back cover to read the leaf that folded inwards. It carried a picture of the author. She was young, much about his age, splashing a toothy smile, looking through a window of a building which was perhaps her home, sitting with her knees towards her chest, her hands folded over them. In her yellow top she looked simple, yet someone who had stories to tell. The bespectacled lady sat amidst a range of little clay pots, each one with a sapling, a few with little button roses hanging out. He smiled. Her hair, slightly thin in front and subtly revealing her scalp, was tied into a bun, lacking a last possible trace of vanity. What stories did she want to tell? Maybe she had a dysfuctional family like many authors do, who ultimately seek solace through venting on blogs and finally writing a book, as is the trend nowadays. Perhaps she had some deep rooted medical troubles that she wanted to forget by giving into writing. Or is it nothing? Maybe she wrote because it made her feel happy. And that is how she looked in the picture.
He closed the book, looked around and walked towards the cash counter. Finally, he had bought himself a copy of her bestseller.
