I should be writing about a greater length of time. But 20 minutes is ample today.
A young reader bought A Little Life by Hawaiian writer Hanya Yanagihara and paid with gold coins and carried it away. When she left, I saw over her shoulder someone trying to reverse a bright blue trailer into the space next to the footpath. The trailer jumped the kerb, and someone stopped to assist. They said, ‘Yep. Yep. Yep. Woah. You’re good.’
A lady came in hoping to buy my Winnie the Pooh stained glass hanging, but I declined. Not for sale. She hung in the door way disappointed, and her husband behind her said, ‘Come on, it’s not for sale’.
Sarah loomed up behind them and came in to tell me about her planned trip to Sydney: she needs a break and Wayne is being annoying again. She said the banks in Sydney are a disgrace, but then conceded that the banks everywhere are a disgrace. She left to go get her shopping.
The blue trailer is gone; a ute with all the windows down has taken its place. A dog with a red collar looks through the window at me. I sell a cook book over the phone. An old gardening book on the shelf next to me falls to the floor for no reason at all. I sell four Anne McCaffrey books.
I take a booking for the guitar recital. A lady in the front sways from side to side as she reads. Outside, a group of friends looking in, and one says, ‘Oh Gawd, don’t go in there. You know what I’m like in a bookshop.’ They leave.
It’s hot outside, and the traffic has banked up. There’s a train going through. A couple walk past slowly with bent shoulders and bags of groceries, and he says, ‘What’s happening here?’ She says, ‘Blessed if I know.’
Twenty minutes is up.