He saw her across a crowded shelf.
Her deckle-edge was seductively deep, her endpapers velvety. She was a first edition, probably autographed. Any man would want to write his name in a book like her.
She noticed him perusing her pages, and blushed. He had a hard spine, and a crisp dust jacket. His eyes were capitalized, and in an obscure font designed in Amsterdam in 1768. She caught herself glancing at his flyleaf, and looked away, mortified.
They were in the YA section, and she was acting like a common galley.
“Can I have your ISBN?” he whispered. He could nearly see her addendum.
“Yes,” she cooed, helpless. “Yes.”
A couple of years ago, for the 110th Anniversary of the terrific indie University Bookstore in Seattle, 110 writers wrote pieces of 110 words. This was mine, a miniature romance novel, the only thing in that genre I’ve written. (So far.) Books are sexy. I became a writer in order to get closer to them.