(no subject)
=LG= The Book Nook - Los Gatos - California
A rapidly expanding local business, The Book Nook has more bookshelves than is likely comfortable for its space. From floor to ceiling of every wall is covered in books, small wooden signs denoting what category the customer is looking at. The rest of the shelves make a maze of the shop, some going parallel while others sharply perpendicular, though it seems to have some organization in that all of the free standing shelves are new books versus the used on the walls.
Tucked between shelves and in the odd place are clusters of furniture for the knowing customer, chintzy chairs with flower patterns tucked into the same arrangement as scarred tables and beanbag chairs. Wooden chairs serve dual purposes throughout as a way to reach top shelves and likely resting places for used books not yet put in order.
Light streams through the windows at the front of the shop, catching on stained glass ornaments and casting the color out. An old wooden counter sits near the door, two cash registers taking up the space provided. On one is a worn plaque proclaiming proudly that they take Visa, MasterCard and Discover.
(Exits : [O]ut )
(Players : Grace )
Whether it feels like summer or it feels like spring is dependent on origin; that it /is/ summer, if barely-so, is fact. Embracing this: the young brunette at the counter is in denim shorts, and a short-sleeved button-down unbuttoned over a tank-top; the former dark blue, the middle grey-and-black striped, and the latter in bright and cheerful green with a wee hoppy frog screenprinted at the top. Alyssa -- for it is an Alyssa -- and her box of sell-back books are at the counter, and she is engaged in animated conversation with the person manning it; she laughs and turns away, double-braids swinging as she sets off to wend her way through the shelves.
Grace is already ensconced in the stacks, paging idly through a worn-covered novel held in one hand. She matches in denim and tank top, though the former is full-length and faded medium blue, and the latter is deep red. Her own braid is single, shorter, and ever-so-slightly sun-lightened. She glances up as one of the minds from up by the counter nears, and smiles a quick and reflexive greeting.
The mind that approaches is rosy-bright, full of the cheerful patter of abstract thought: here an observation about a title that's caught her eye, there a snatched snippet of song. It's /almost/ flatscan-shielded, like someone who has been taught how but only absently puts it into practice, a little bit reflexive, a little bit sloppy. (It is also, possibly, faintly-familiar, if stripped of context.) When she spots Grace already in the stacks, her smile lights her face, just as reflexive; aloud she carols a, "Hello!" while in the back of her head a catalogue of faces is flipped through, as she tries to place the vague-familiarity of Grace's. (It is, also, mostly, a catalogue of orders.)
"Hello," Grace replies, expression flickering briefly curious before she places the younger woman's face, familiar enough from occasional shopping trips. She cants her head towards the counter, invisible behind the maze of books filling the shop. "Doing a turnaround on your books?"
Aly finally places Grace as well, and the smile grows a little wider, a little brighter. (Customer, good one, friendly! A+) "Yeah," she says, making a swinging turn to glance up the shelves, then swivel back to Grace. "There's barely any room in the upstairs," she explains with a crinkle of her nose, "but I'm terrible at remembering to take things back to the library in time. Thus!" is punctuated with her hands, with her wide-bright eyes and the lift of her eyebrows, "Perfect solution."
Grace smiles, the set of her mouth skewing ever so slightly lopsided in humour. "Probably more sensible in the long run than my method. Eventually, you run out of room for even double-tiered shelves." She flips the book she's been scanning shut and tucks it into the crook of her arm. A single eye, cat-slit, peeks off the front cover, as though watching its fellows.
"Oh," Aly says, with a bright note of cheer in her voice for all that her mind and her mouth skew slightly wistful, "if I had the room anymore, I'd totally buy and keep forever." She crinkles her nose again, shakes her head and sets her braids to swinging. "I used to say, there's no such thing as too many books, just not enough shelves--"
Grace huffs a quiet laugh under her breath. "Just one more reason a TARDIS would be the ultimate living arrangement, isn't it?" She tucks a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of ink along the top of her cheekbone.
"I would /even/ settle for just the bigger on the inside part of the deal," Aly elaborates, "as much as traveling through all of time and space would be /great/. Unlimited space for books, though? Tch. I am /so/ right there." There is a brief -- brief! -- internal battle, but pointing out, "You've got a little--" wins out, the smudge reflected crystal-clear in her mind's eye as she wiggles her fingers toward her own cheek.
"Slightly less likely to accidentally unravel the fabric of reality, too," Grace replies. Her brow furrows ever so slightly, and she swipes at the smudge with a thumb. It smears it a little wider rather than cleaning it off. "--Exploded pens are the bane of my existence."
"I don't know, I might somehow manage anyway," Aly teases, mostly self-directed and a little obscure-referential. "Or at least end up in proximity when it happened." Grace's ink-removal attempt prompts a breath sucked through her teeth, and a slow shake of her head. "Not -- quite the result you were hoping for, I'm afraid."
Grace drops her hand, turning it with a grimace as she spots the black ink smudged along her thumb - no wonder it isn't removing the ink. "Well," she says, on a quiet breath of laughter. "I suppose it could be worse."
"Could be oil paint," Aly agrees, her answering laugh brightly amused, "or weird alien bodily fluids." One of these is /slightly/ more likely to have actually happened to her. (If only -slightly-.)
"If there are alien bodily fluids and no TARDIS, I will be vastly disappointed." Grace's disappointed face, alas, looks a little too amused to be terribly convincing. She un-tucks her book and waves it in the direction of the cash register, exact enough that it's fairly obvious she's been here a time or two (or twelve) before. "I should get this and find someplace to clean up. Just in case it's actually acid."
"I only welcome our alien overlords if there is a TARDIS involved somehow," Aly mock-solemns, her mind and mouth both giving her away: the former sparks with bright pops of amusement, while the latter twitches at the corners before breaking into a full-force grin. "I'll let you go, then," she says, magnanimous, with a wiggle of her fingers in the direction of the register -- also accurate enough to be familiar. "You should swing by some time," she adds, "to let me know whether or not it was." Acid, one imagines.
Grace grins slightly, half-turning towards the aisle. "I'm sure you'll be able to tell by the horrible scarring or lack thereof. --Good luck with the holiday rush." Because surely people will want patriotic pastry. Possibly with sparklers involved. She finishes her turn and lopes away, vanishing around one of the tight, twisty corners in the direction of the counter.
Sunday afternoon encounter.