Bookshop Man, Part 1

In through a peephole came a beam of sunlight. It revealed itself in the dust in the air and fell onto shiny brown loafers. Two copper faces of Lincoln peered out through yawning slits in the tongues of the shoes. The ankles going into the shoes were argyle; brown twill pants revealed just too much of them. The pants were ironed with a sharp crease that faded up toward the thigh. The belt was simple and had several holes to spare. The cardigan that flapped against the belt was brown also and hung unbuttoned. Beneath it was a yellow shirt, buttoned to the throat, its collar stiff -- the cardboard that came under the collar had been meticulously reinserted after each washing.

The man's salt-and-pepper hair was styled in a combover even though his hairline was still strong, as though he were preparing for an eventuality. His eyebrows were bushy, the same color as his hair, and his eyes were steely and opaque.

His nose was thin and straight; beside it ran the glistening path of a single tear that had made its way from his eye into his stiff, graying mustache. He stepped toward the door, steeling himself, and turned the sign that hung there carefully and slowly from Closed to Open.

He was a dealer of rare books, and this was his shop.