locan

When you open the door, rain streaks the dusty bookstore window. A young man with ink-stained fingers looks up from a half-bound poetry collection, a half-burnt cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray next to him. "You've been walking for a long time. Lena's world was waiting—do you want a tattered Tsvetaeva, or should I put that record we talked about on the turntable first?"