|Blogs > sweetalyssum > One Petal At A Time|
I long for these days of autumn every year. Crisp breezes that hold just a hint of chill to them.
Planning to go the bookstore tonight after my meeting and pick up a new book. Something, that I can curl up on the sofa with. Something that will tickle my romantic whimsy, perhaps a tad steamy and naughty.
When I'm in bookstores I also take the time to make up stories about people in my mind. Wondering at the serious pondering looks of people in different genres.
Are they lonely? Do they like to talk? Are they happy, sad, angry, frustrated with life? Would I like them if I talked to them?
And I wonder if they wonder about me? And then I try not to think about that because it would make me too self-conscious and I would have to run out of the store, so instead I block out that thought and go back to my favorite sections of the store.
That would be the coffee bar, the cookbook section, anything in the fiction sections of lust, fantasy, and more lust. Occasionally, I'll break out and read some serious fiction so that I can feel superior to others and think to myself, "yeah, but I've read..."
But still, I like most often to just peruse the books, smelling that new book smell, feeling the buzz of quiet that bookstores seem to hold inherently by being a bookstore.
I'll take my book home that has need, greed, and disaster as plot markers, fix myself a cup of something with a splash of something else, and curly up snuggly warm to get lost in a dream.