As she walks down the main street of her hometown, she notices a small alley leading off into the heart of the working community. Her eye catches a small, aged sign hanging above a hidden doorway she's never seen before. Intrigued, she stops and steps backward a pace or two. Antique Bookstore. Tilting her head slightly as she reads, not quite realizing it, she turns and steps down the alley, walking almost without thinking toward the hidden doorway. Pressing down on the worn brass thumb press while gripping the handle, the old, heavy wooden door creaks open. A bell on a spring rings above the door as it swings wide, releasing the smell of old books to drift out and greet her.
Stepping inside, she walks toward the overflowing bookshelves. Creaks and moans fill the air from the old, worn, grayish floorboards. Lost for room, the shelves have books stacked in front, beside, and atop one another. A thin layer of dust blankets everything, faintly visible in the dim, crystal light emitted from the row of chandeliers running down the center of the vast room, a room that seems to disappear into nothingness. Her fingers run along the edges of the books, tracing the bindings, a slight billow of dust following her caressing hand. Her eyes fall gently on titles, drifting from book to book as she slowly walks the long aisle. Unexpectedly, her gaze catches on a title. She stops and reads: It Does Not Matter Where in the World You Are.
She reaches out with her right index finger, placing it atop the binding, dead center, and with little more than a touch, coaxes the worn, tattered, sapphire-blue book — its cover flecked with white, sparkling like the night sky — from its long-forgotten resting place. Looking behind her, she notices an old high-backed couch with a reading lamp beside it. She switches it on, and a cone of light falls where she'll be sitting. The specks of dust drifting through the light look almost magical, like fairy dust sparkling in moonlight.
She sits, blows the dust from the cover, and turns the book over to read the back. The review captures her attention, compelling her to open it to the center pages. How warm and right it feels, open in her left hand. Her right index finger falls on a paragraph, tracing the words as she reads on. How well it flows, how right it seems, how real the images appear in her mind — how warm and drawn it makes her feel. Longing for more, she turns to the front page, the prologue, and reads on, mesmerized. Is this man real, she wonders. Can he be?
Wanting still more, she turns to the epilogue — the end — and reads the last sentence aloud: "...Princess, let us make our dreams reality, our romance true, and our hearts one..."
With a sharp gasp, she snaps the book shut and looks up, bewildered, at an old man standing beside her, as if he'd appeared from nowhere.
"Good choice," he tells her quietly. "Well used, but still full of life."
"How much?" she asks.
"Priceless," he replies.
"There must be a price. I must have this book."
"Yes," he replies. "The price: your heart — your undaunted, monogamous love..."
by Alan
