Sierra

“I think we can get these books to the front shelf if we get rid of those old magazines.” I drop the box on the old chair as the old woman dusts off the nearly empty shelf by the front of the shop.

“People don’t read magazines anymore, do they?” she asks as she pulls the dusty old magazines from the shelf.

They don’t buy new magazines, let alone old issues that no one cares about anymore, but I don’t say that to her as I start setting the new releases on the shelves. “Afraid not.”

The shop is starting to look so much better already. We had three people walk in today to browse, and Mrs. Walker said that was more than usual by a long shot. We cleaned the front glass, put in some cute advertisements and arranged the display case to draw in customers. Now, my goal is to rearrange the inside of the store to get the people who come in to actually buy something.

She was so far behind in her inventory that the new releases from two years ago were still in the ‘New Release’ section which was poorly placed at the back of the store. Now we have it in the front, and I encouraged Mrs. Walker to create a ‘Young Adult’ section to appeal to the college crowd, as well as the moms who need an escape from their needy kids on their vacation.

She’s been very accepting of the changes so far. I keep expecting her to kick me out and tell me to mind my own business, but instead, she just keeps asking me to stay forever and run the store for her. And all I keep thinking is that the invitation is very tempting.

We quickly lose track of time and before I know it, it’s past two. Mrs. Walker made me a sandwich for lunch, and promptly ordered me to get out and go enjoy the sun for the rest of the day. Before I leave, I turn and marvel at the difference we made already. It’s starting to resemble a cozy, inviting bookstore instead of a dusty old attic full of books.

There’s only one place on my mind as I walk out the front door. The tattoo shop is just two doors up, so I slowly approach the window, hoping to get a glimpse of him working without him seeing me.

I’m in luck. Just as I reach the glass, I can see him. He’s facing the window, bent over working on a back tattoo like it’s an easel and he’s a painter. His face is blank, but his stare is intense. With a slight squint to his eyes, he watches his own hands at work on the skin. The guy that he’s tattooing is sitting backward on a chair, almost like a dentist's chair. It’s reclined enough to make him comfortable, and rather than wearing a look of pain, he seems relaxed.

People pass me as I watch. He must be almost done because he pulls back and stares at the work, wiping a couple of times with a white towel. When the client says something, Logan laughs, the corners of his mouth lifting toward his eyes, creating delicate wrinkles at the edges.