Sometimes your past comes to bite you in your arse.

We have been running this republic for a little over five years and have happily sold a whole bunch of books in the short time that we have been around. In the beginning we had issues with actually putting up a lot of books that well, we were attached to or were attached to us. It was hard, sacrifices had been made. Many memories, many customers, many associations, a few lovers all frozen in time. Every once in awhile though you get a blast from the past.

Last week one of our suppliers landed up at the store with a lot of book, happy times buying books – and we do it everyday.

A book stood out, hardback, covered.

It beckoned.

I look at the cover.

A familiar face.

I smile running my fore finger lovingly down her deckled edge.

I open the book, take a deep whiff, so intoxicating.

Close the book look at its rear end, it has our tag.

Freeze frame, we had this book four years ago and I remember the customer who bought the book.

I buy the book along with a bunch of others.

While tagging the books, I come across a book of poems inscribed for the customer.

I ask the supplier where he got the books, he is a little reluctant.

I tell him I am not going to judge him or go after his source.

He relents.

I wonder what has happened to this customer.

Where is she right now.

Has she left her neighbourhood? The city ? This continent ?

Is she dearly departed?

From what I remember an image of getting books from this woman would be trying to pry a witches stash of dried toad nuts from her dying fingers.

Or maybe someone from your past walked into the store with the sole intention of biting you in our arse.