Where do all the old books go?
Books forgotten, passed to-and-fro,
Stories regected, not wanted, oh,
Where do all the old books go?
* * * *
Eloise Baker stumbled into the musty, warm bookshop, being careful to close the door carefully this time, and placed the broken doorhandle on the counter next to an old computer screen and an even older till. The man, her boss, turned after he had taken his coat off and opened a door to a tiny room behind the big desk. It was full of papers attatched to the walls, notes probably, and a couple of hooks for coats.
"Give me your coat, no point in wearing it inside." He reached out. She fumbled a little, but felt a tad more confident now she wasn't out in the rain. He raised an eyebrow when she almost dropped it.
Whilst he was hanging them up, Eloise managed to get a peek at the room she was in. Signs on the walls and shelves told her that she was in the adult section of the shop. Little labels read 'Fiction', 'Biographies' and 'General Non-fiction'. All the books in here were nice and modern, smooth and clean. Eloise stroked the covers of a couple of them, and secretly sniffed a couple of the pages. Her nose wrinkled. She didn't like the smell of the new ones, the plastic, mass-produced bindings and the plain paper. Eloise preferred old books.
Suddenly she was aware that her boss had finished in the closet, and she looked round to see him, leaning casually against the doorframe. He was watching. It was a strange kind of watchng though, because it wasn't sharp, or suspicious, or threatening. Just quiet and curious. His eyes became cold then.
"Are you done? There are some things I have to as you, as an employer. Sit down." He indicated two chairs in the far corner o the small room.
"Ah, yes. Sorry again." She replied. He shrugged.
"It's Forrest by the way, Sam Forrest." He said absent mindedly.
"I'm Eloise Baker."
"I know that."
"Oops, yes, of course." She started to panic a bit again. Calm down, stupid! It's ok! She shouted inwardly. They both sat down in the opposite-facing armchairs.
"Right. I know most of the basic stuff, like name, age, and all the other rubbish on your CV. I've just got a couple of questions for you." Sam sighed.
"Y-yeah. Go ahead." Eloise began to twist her hair between her index and second finger. Twisting. Twisting. Twisting.
Snag. Her index finger was now caught in the swirl of blue and black. Sam was still talking about something when her attention moved to getting her finger unstuck.
"So, why did you want this job anyways?" He murmured. After a second or two of silence, he looked up, brow furrowed, to see Eloise getting quite frustrated with her hair, managing to let a lot of hair slide out of the curl, but a couple were still knotted around her finger. He waited, watching, using his thumb to cup his chin. Eloise noticed him again.
"Oh no, sorry! My....finger's.....stuck...." She growled, tugging the stands taught again.
Sam got up, walked up to and leaned over the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. He lumbered casually over, reached out and neatly snipped the hair so it fell bck to it's usual postition. Eloise gawped.
"Th....anks......." She whispered, then gulped slightly out of fear.
"By the way...." He began as he finished putting the scissors away and sat down again.
"....what mental illness do you have?"
Eloise continued gawping.
"I-I'm sorry?" She questioned.
"Huh. It's nothing." Sam murmured, almost to himself.