Two

*any attempted thought, a self proclaimed artist who would love the sound of his own voice so much that I didn't have to talk, a trip to a city with too many sidewalk cafés, a man with eyes in a colour the*

*furthest away from his. But then he would be there one day, sitting by the table reading, with his legs crossed, smelling of soap and old books, and he'd look up with that smile that would barely curl his*

*lips but light up his eyes and it would start all over again. Once I told him I loved him. He bought me dinner in return*.

*I wish I could tell you I left then, but it still took me weeks. When I finally did I didn't leave just him, but also the flat with the pea green cabinets and the city where I knew every back street and*

*cobble stone. 900 km away from there was a new city waiting for me. The one who had offered me the job there was a lady in her 60's whom I'd met on one of my trips. She had a small book store that didn't*

*really have any customers, but that suited me fine since I didn't really know a lot about books. She kept the store for nostalgic reasons and just needed a reason to move. It was a perfect arrangement. The*

*store had a terrible location, on a back street where nobody ever had an errand, except for the patrons of the neighbouring sex shop, and they didn't seem to want books. To the other side of it was a small*

*deli. The owner of this came storming into the book shop on my first day. He was a small man of indeterminable age who looked like he was 100 but had the energy of a 30-year old. In the first five minutes*

*of our acquaintance he managed to tell me that his name was Sohrab, that he was born in Jalalabad, that he had 4 children and 7 grandchildren, all of their names, which I forgot as soon as he'd told me, and*