Milan's Bookshop

Milan’s Bookshop:

The shop was hidden enough inside the local walls of the city that we rarely got tourists. Occasionally one would come in, hoping the shop would suffice as their personal proof of their “really seeing” Prague. It was when they would ask where Kafka or Kundera was that would tip me off. Ah, the quintessential Czech writers. I’d lazily motion to the far right corner of the room from behind the counter where I stood browsing the Internet
The city had not yet been taken over by tourism, though it was slowly but surely spreading from Wenceslas square east to where I stood to work everyday. I dreaded the prospect and I prayed that I might be dead or too old to care when it happened.
It was February, and freezing of course. Having grown in the city I was used to the harsh winters, but that winter was especially bitter. One layer of clothing did nothing to hide from the icy air that year, two or three layers would just begin to create a protection, but mostly we all just tried to stay indoors as much as we could.
It was raining, the large window next to the entrance was wet with the water running down its glass, distorting the images of people and dogs as they walked by, making them look like mirages, only clear in certain sections of the glass. She was one of those distortions and when she came into the shop I could barely make her out. She was covered from head to toe, only her big dark eyes squinting out from her dark scarf.
She began to unravel. She moved the scarf down her face, off of her head, and it sat in a messy pile on her shoulders. She wore a grey hat underneath, and removed that as well. Her hair was black, cut dramatically around her face, with her bangs uncomfortably short. She grabbed the scarf at the fringes and pulled it off her shoulders in chunks. She shook the moisture off onto the ground before hanging it on the back of a chair that was at the table she chose. Her gray knitted hat lay on the table; it looked like something Joli would wear. Joli, can’t forget, I needed to go see her after work. The woman took off her long pea coat revealing more layers of cloth and sweater underneath it. Her gloves were red, a dark blood red, and for the first time I noticed so was her scarf that had been wrapped around her face. She removed the first sweater and put it on top of the large pile she had made of her garments.
She turned to look at the place for the first time, ready to see where she was. Her cheeks were flushed deep pink and she used her little hand to wipe away residual tears that were on her cheek. Had she been crying or was it from the cold? She didn’t look particularly happy, but she didn’t look particularly sad either. I scanned her body as discreetly as I knew how to, but she must have noticed. I was gawking, what was wrong with me? She wasn’t the first beautiful woman I had ever seen. She emptied her bag onto the table in more pieces. She placed a black notebook on the table and on top of that another smaller book, two pens, and a case for glasses.
She was finished unraveling and she walked up to the café counter to order a coffee from Marika. She poured honey into the hot cup and stirred it with one of the silver spoons. The steam surrounded her face as she took a small sip.
When she got closer, I made out more of her details. Her cheeks were still very pink from being outside. She walked into the bookstore area of the shop with the hot cup close to mouth; she held it with both hands as she eyed the rows of books.
She was in one sense petite, but in another she was very large. Her height and limbs were all small, short in length, she had very small hands, but her features did not match this body. Her eyes were big and round with a slight rise in the corners, her brows full reminding me of my mothers old post cards of Audrey Hepburn that she used to receive from her American friend, her cheek bones were high and covered by full and plump skin. Her mouth was wide hiding big pearls for teeth . Her skin was as white as most other Czech people in winter. She wore tight fitting jeans, which gave me full details of her wide thighs and round ass. I didn’t want to pay attention to this area, but I found it difficult, as I always would, to ignore those legs. She wore a sweater vest with a teddy bear sewn on the chest. Who was this woman? Was she five years old or twenty-five years old?
She looked to be the most innocent thing I’d ever seen but when I looked closer her nails were painted the darkest red which I was sure would look black from a distance, her eyes were lined with a thick black liquid streak, her nose sparkled in the light from the stud that went through the crease in her nose, and when she bent down to grab a long skinny book from the bottom shelf, a line of red lace peaked out from above her jeans. She was definitely a woman.
I snuck around the shelf where she stood with the cup to her face and the book propped up on the bookshelf so she could read with no hands. I slowly found my place a few feet to the side of her and grabbed a random book to hide behind to see what she was reading. Rozpitvání was written in large letters on the top of the page, an anatomy book. Interesting. A scientist? I wouldn’t have guessed it.
She looked up at me, probably wondering who I was and why I had been staring at her since the moment she walked in. I lowered the book, hoping the title wasn’t anything too embarrassing. I didn’t look at her, giving her a moment to make her opinion. When I figured she had enough time I met her sideways stare.
“Pocínovat JÁ pomoci tebe nález něco?”
She looked at me with nervous half smile.
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Czech.” She said with a sincere apology.
No. She was American? The heavy accent couldn’t be from any other country, but she looked European, she looked Czech, I thought to myself in a moment of denial. But, no, now that I had heard her speak I could see it. I thanked my dead mother for forcing me to learn English as a child. I translated for her.
“Can I help you find anything?”
“Oh, you work here. Um, no I’m just browsing, thank you.”

She was sweet. A slightly lower voice then seemed appropriate for her size, but I did find that it got higher at certain words. I wondered if after a while of listening to her I might find a pattern as to why that happened. She was an awkward balance of insecurity and confidence. Making direct eye contact, while biting her lower lip. Was she nervous? Did she find me attractive or did she want me to leave her alone? Was I freaking her out?
“Why are you reading Czech if you can not understand it?” Was that too rude?
She looked down with furrowed brows and quickly relaxed then when she saw the book she was reading.
“Oh no, just looking at the photos, I am in a figure drawing club with Pavla Dvorakova.”
I knew the name from my time at university when I studied photography. Pavla was a very well known artist. An Artist, that seemed more appropriate. She was overwhelmingly adorable, like something small I wanted to keep in my pocket, so I could protect her, and know exactly what she wanted at all times, so I could give her those things. But, when I caught a glimpse of her thighs again I knew there were things I wanted to do with her that wouldn’t be possible in my pocket.
She put the tall skinny book back in the wrong place on the shelf and brought the slightly less steaming cup of coffee to her mouth, keeping her eyes on me.
“My name is Sophia,” she reached out her right hand as she lowered the mug. I squeezed her small hand and I introduced myself, “Milan.”

“Like Kundera?” Jesus, she said Kundera. I should have left right then, should have politely said,
“If there is anything else I can do for you, I will be at the counter.” But I didn’t. Instead, I found her cliché comparison endearing. I even found myself somewhat impressed that she knew who Milan Kundera was.
I smiled.
“Yes, like Kundera.”