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The pretty young clerk was reading 50 Shades Of Gray when the old man hobbled up.
“I called about a book.”
Face flushed, pupils big as saucers, she handed him a slim volume.
It was everything she’d said, first edition, signed, dust cover intact.
Standing by the front door, he thought about smoky jazz clubs, wild-eyed young poets, and the endless highway.
A collector would pay big, but he just wanted the book.
The cab arrived on time and he took small fast steps and climbed in.
“I’m in a hurry driver. Let’s get on the road.”