The bookstore compulsion

[Sugar Smack]

Yesterday-

Dad and I visited at his house and we decided to go to lunch at a natural-foods cafe. The cafe was built as part of a new "housing community" known as Southern Village. I'd hated the whole project on principle because of what it had done to the trees and deer in the area, but here it was, complete with a movie theater, pizza place, church, school, shoe store, etc. We ate at Weaver Street Market.

The food there is so GOOD! I'd never had baked tofu before. I try green beans with pesto and squash salad. I'm in dizzy-heights mode & I require silence as I savor everything. The quaint lunch over, Dad and I slouch into our after-dining postures in our chairs and chat. Then we wonder where the bookstore is.

Cute cashier guy points us down the street and to the left. We want to browse and possibly buy. I could stay in a bookstore all afternoon. We approach a one-room glass-walled corner bookstore and peek in, our view helped by the sunshine. We go in. What the fuck?!? There are shelves lining the walls, but just look at this! Instead of seeing countless spines of books, the books are turned on the shelves so we can see EVERY cover with ample space between them. Where are the rest of the books? Is this it? I'm supposing with disgust that the owners are opting for a "minimalist" atmosphere, but this isn't what you do with bookstores. You do it with cafes and restaurants and hotels; you leave bookstores with the vocation of being as densely-packed with options and variety as possible, even if it DOES look "cluttered".

After 20 minutes of this pitiful store, Dad and I hug and part ways. I'm not done with browsing cause I've been so disappointed by that store. I go to Borders next and linger there for an hour, sated, knowing I'll get one paperback and I'm careful to pick the Right One. Finally I pick out a book called "The Bitch Posse" by Martha O'Connor. The more I stare at it and page through it, the more excited I get. I can't WAIT to get out of here!! This book is mine, mine, MINE. I pay for it and run to my car. I glance at it lovingly where it lies on the passenger seat waiting to be torn into, and I reach over and touch it at the stoplights.

When I get home I eye it greedily, set up the reading props I'll need, take one more bathroom break, then DIG IN.