A man and his son, maybe. I heard them talking together in Classics.
‘You have to be careful of the translation… I’ve got a rubbish translation that I picked up somewhere…’
The man speaking leaned in, hands clasped behind his back, reading titles closely. Peruse, sigh, agree, nod, frown, turn away, turn back, ‘Well I can’t see that without my glasses…’
His phone in his breast pocket gave away a small sound.
‘Is that yours?’ He called to the younger man in the next room.
‘No, it’s you.’
‘Probably something useless then.’ He fumbled with the phone, uncomfortable with its intrusive glass mouth. He held it close and read it slowly.
‘Oh, they’re waiting for us in the bakery. They’re on a table at the back.’
He put the phone away and drifted along the shelf once more. He picked up Saul Bellow and Balzac. He balanced paperbacks under one arm. He was adroit. His eyes were narrow with pleasure. The young man, his son maybe, came out with David Foster Wallace. His eyes were narrow with pleasure.
They browsed on. They did not go to the bakery .
Illustration by Andre Martins de Barros