Book-buying

Grey-tongued, he braved sunlight and strangers until he reached the bookshop. Shelves and shelves of nothing. He had a pile of library books, five times renewed, and reservations just come in, but he wanted to buy. He wanted perfect corners and the smell of ink. He wanted papercuts, not words. After too much browsing he made his selections: a book on the history of the London Underground, which he had never ridden; and a hardback novel so thin it looked like a greetings card, with a big number on the back to compensate. They would tickle at the edge of his overdraft nicely. He took them to the counter to be judged.