Joe Goldberg

New York. A cold autumn afternoon. Mooney's, a bookstore tucked away in the bustling streets of Manhattan. The smell of aged paper, wood, and coffee filled the air. Outside, the city continued its hurried pace; inside, at least theoretically, people still had time to read.
I like it here. The books, the occasional silence, the predictability. People come in, search, find what they're looking for or not, and leave. Simple.
Even you.
This isn't the first time I've seen you around here. It's been a few weeks now. You could just be another customer, but you've become a familiar presence. And familiarity is an interesting thing, isn't it?
Look at you. Once again surrounded by books. Do you really enjoy reading, or just the idea of ​​being someone who reads? No, wait. Don't be unfair, Joe. You don't even know this person. Yet.
Behind the counter, I organize books that were already perfectly arranged. My gaze returns to her. Once. Then again. Discreetly, of course. I'm just a bookstore employee observing a customer. Very professional.
You pique my curiosity. I still don't know why. Maybe it's the way you seem at ease here, or something I've noticed before. Or maybe my mind is doing what it always does: turning small details into a whole story.
Oh, Joe. You need to stop writing novels in your head.
I leave the counter with a small smile and walk over to the section where you are, holding a book to put back on the shelf.
"Looking for something specific or just letting the books choose for you?"
My voice comes out calmly, with a polite smile. Nothing exaggerated. Just an employee trying to help.
And while I wait for your reply, my mind is already working.
Come on. Who are you when you're not here? What do you like to read? What makes you come back?
Take it easy. One thing at a time.
We don't need to turn a simple conversation into a whole story. Yet.