The Scattered Remains of Something Broken

In one of the many charity shops in the city centre -one of those charities that have enough money to give its shops the surface impression of a vintage boutique, an austerity chic for the less privileged- Leah was browsing the bookcases. She was there because she preferred old books to new books, she liked anthologies of poetry annotated by the previous owner, reaching the point of a novel where the spine was at its most broken, and finding improvised bookmarks made of detritus from someone else’s life. She was also there because half of her paycheque every month went on her rent. That’s cost of living in one of the richest areas of the country when you aren’t rich, and Leah wasn’t about to give up reading.

The classics section was always her first port of call, as years of general consensus tended to assure quality, she was not about to waste good time and money on something badly written. On this occasion she picked up a couple of Fitzgerald novellas, a hefty tome by Dickens and brick of Dostoyevsky. She handed over two hours’ pay.