The Boy in the Bookstore.

  My thick, horn-rimmed glasses slumped slightly on the lumpy bridge of my nose, unnecessarily emphasizing the obscure composition of my face. Clenching my book tightly, I scurried through the many rows of tired, mahogany bookshelves.  The worn laces on my dingy tennis shoes trailed behind me as I scuffed through the crowd brought about by a lonely Sunday in rainy month of March. I could feel strands of dirt brown hair loosening from my sloppy ponytail, tied with a squalid string I had found implanted in the asphalt of a parking lot. I didn’t bother to swipe them out of my eyes as my feet began to blur in the span of my vision from the speed at which I propelled myself down the narrow passage between bookshelves. My scurry was jolted to a close as I suddenly hit a sturdy object moving in the other direction. I scrambled around blindly to try and locate my book that had been thrown from my grip in the sudden collision. Feeling around for it on the grimy carpeted floor, I felt my calloused fingers graze the smooth surface of a polished leather shoe. Eyes widening behind my foggy glasses, I slowly pushed my bangs out of my face and unstuck the loose strands from my chapped lips. Startled, I shrank away as I scanned the large figure of a handsome man, at least five years my senior, looming near my ashen face. I could feel my cheeks growing scarlet as he tenderly smiled and handed me my book. He retracted his crouch slowly and returned to his full height, sufficiently towering over my stature. I averted my eyes from his kind grin and probing blue-grey eyes before I could become further ensnared in his suffocating presence and murmured to beginnings of a rambling apology. I bowed my head further as I anticipated an onslaught of pitiless reprimands for my garbled carelessness. Much to my surprise, I heard no such scolding. Instead, when I glanced up, I found myself alone in the midst of an empty bookstore.