A cold day, very cold day.

Thermal socks, long johns,

still cold.

It’s February,

the coldest month of the year.


I had a decent day,

sales were OK,

which is unexpected,

in such weather,

the bookish types,

tend to be hermits,

in the subarctic temperatures,

they stay home, and read,

re-read if necessary.

Today, some of them needed,

to stock up.

I was busy in spurts,

which left,

lots of time,

for reading.

the perks,

of a bookseller,

time to read:-)

I am reading,

Where The Red Fern Grows,

a very enjoyable book.


It’s about a boy who hunts,

raccoons, in the Ozarks,

and yet, I like it,

go figure.

I have a feeling,

there is going to be,

an Old Yeller,

type denouement.

I’ll probably cry, like a little girl,

some tough butch, I am:-)

Around three o’clock,

I was eating my orange,

and reading a gripping,

scene, in which,

Billy, Old Dan and Little Ann,

are chasing down,

the ghost coon,

in an effort to win a bet,

off the Pritchard boys,

bad seed types,

who you can, easily imagine,

growing into Deliverance like, characters.

The door opens,

and I get hit with a frosty chill,

I look up, say hello,

and insert the bookmark,

into the book.

It turns out to be this woman,

who I haven’t seen in an age.

I don’t know her name,

although I’m pretty sure,

she must have given it to me,

at some point.

This is odd, for me,

I have an amazing memory.

I’m not bragging,

it has nothing to do,

with intelligence,

you have it or you don’t,

I never forget a name.

But, this woman,


I have a theory about that,

this woman comes on strong.

Really strong.

Put it this way, even I notice.

I don’t recall if I have ever mentioned my faulty gaydar, probably. It is practically non existent. For me to figure out a woman is:  A) Gay  or B) flirting with me,  it needs to be obvious to a very straight 90 year old. Either that, or she tells me.

This woman,

always looks at me,

looks into me,

might be more appropriate,

as if she sees us doing,

very intimate physical things,

to each other.

She makes me stutter,

and drop things,

she makes my voice rise,

to a nervous pitch,

she makes me giggle.

I don’t know why,

she’s not my type,

and I don’t like the blatant,

come on,


I am not made of stone,

and I react to blatant sexual interest,

like the red blooded butch,

I am.

But, today, honestly,

I was glad to see her,

glad to get my ego stroked,

and stroke she did.

She started off by telling me,

how great I looked,

I didn’t,

bad hair day,

puffy eyes from a bad nights sleep,

and chapped lips,

from February and a recently,

departed cold.

Then she tells me she’s moved to,

the country and I should come for a weekend,

some time.

I mentioned I don’t know her name, right?

Anyway, another customer walked in,

and I was saved.

But, after they both left with several books,

I felt ridiculously buoyant,

like I still had it.


It is oddly satisfying to be wanted,

by someone who you don’t,


Later girls,


4 Replies to “Cold, reading and ego stroking”

  1. I like the positive post.

    As to your side comment, my gaydar has been misaligned for decades, hence my constant identification of butches who turn out to be straight as straight can be. And I definitely have some faulty wiring when it comes to recognizing come-ons, pick-up lines or expressions of interest. I never understand the signs until I’m way past the intersection. If ever you find a dyke repair manual on your bookish travels I hope you will write about it here or at least post the schematics.

  2. I thought I was whinny, go figure, I’m glad you liked it and I apologise for being grumpy of late.
    I would really like to find two of those manuals, one for me and one for you:-) Or perhaps, we could share,
    Yes, that’s called flirting:-D)

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