Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

She was looking for the same out-of-print book he was looking for, and they found this out standing in the fiction section of the small second-hand bookshop on Crane Street, each holding half of what turned out to be the same copy — a split spine, a missing jacket, loved to pieces by whoever had owned it before.

“I found it first,” she said.

“I’ve been looking for three weeks,” he said.

They both looked at the book. Then at each other.

He was wearing a very old navy jumper and had the look of a person who had arrived at the bookshop with no intention of buying only one thing. She recognised this because she was also that person.

“Why do you want it?” she asked.

“My copy fell in the bath.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Completely. I’d just got to the good part.”

“What’s the good part?”

He looked at her like she’d asked something deeply personal. “Chapter fourteen. Do you know it?”

She knew the book. She’d read it twice. Chapter fourteen was the one where the character says the thing she’d been thinking about for years.

“I know it,” she said.

“Then you understand why I need this copy.”

“I also need this copy.”

“For what reason?”

She thought about it honestly. “My previous copy is currently being held hostage by someone I lent it to four years ago who has not returned it and probably never will.”

“That’s a travesty.”

“It’s a genuine grief.”

They both held the book. Outside, someone wheeled a bicycle past. The shop smelled of old paper and the particular dust of good things stored carefully.

“Sol,” the man behind the counter called. “That one’s not for sale. It came in damaged. I was going to pulp it.”

They both looked at the counter, then at each other.

“Oh,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

They put the book down.

They stood for a moment in the absence of the reason they’d been talking.

“I’m Hazel,” she said.

“Ben.”

“Do you come here often?” She heard herself say it and winced. “I cannot believe I just said that.”

He laughed — genuine, full. “Every Saturday. It’s the best bookshop in the city and also Sol sells very good coffee from behind the counter if you ask nicely.”

“He does?”

“He pretends not to but if you tell him you’ve been standing for a while he produces a cafetière from somewhere.”

“That is the most specific tip I’ve ever been given in a bookshop.”

“I’ve been coming here for four years. I have a lot of tips.”

She looked at the shelves — rows of good, worn, waiting things.

“Then could I have another one?” she asked.

He leaned against the shelf with the ease of someone who belonged here.

“The poetry section has a gap between the Ps and Rs where someone keeps leaving notes. Anonymous. Started about six months ago. No one knows who it is.”

“Notes saying what?”

“Lines. Quotes. Occasionally just a single word.”

“And nobody claims them?”

“Nobody claims them.”

She thought about that for a moment. Then: “Shall we go look?”

He straightened from the shelf. He was smiling now, and she was smiling, and Sol was pretending he hadn’t been watching all of this.

“We shall,” Ben said, and she followed him through the narrow aisle.

They found three notes. They debated the handwriting for twenty minutes. Sol brought coffee without being asked.

Neither of them left for a very long time.

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So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.