Flash Fiction by David

When my teenage son needed a copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, someone suggested I check with a shop that was stuffed from floor to ceiling with used books. Arriving at the location, I was surprised to find a small wood-framed house. The front door creaked open, jingling a bell, and a pleasant lady appeared. She was pushing a cart filled with dusty paperbacks. “Hello,” said the gray-haired woman. “May I help you?” When I told her the novel I needed, she beamed. “Hemingway! I have a whole room full of him.” I followed her to the back, where, true to her word, she showed me into a hidden alcove filled with his collected works. “The Old Man and the Sea?” “Yes ma’am,” I said carefully, not wishing to inhale the stale air. “I have five copies,” she giggled. “How many do you want?” “Just one, please.” “Only one?! Why not buy two, so you can read along with your son?” “Ok.” I said, smiling at my teen. We kept coming back, always buying two of another classic. When the one we affectionately called the “Book Lady” died, I bought her little house, dusty paperbacks and all.