I go to an old book store north of here. Dusty.
The young man at the counter follows me around to chat. It has been a lonely morning.
He mentions that it was cold that morning. That his hands were frozen by the time he got to the subway.
I look up at him, away from the rows of old books.
“You came from Toronto?” I ask.
He stares back at me.
“No, the store.”
When another customer appears, he moves on to them.