Man Reading A Book Novels & Stories

He sat and he looked at the room. Two people at tables. One with a laptop. One with a book — the actual physical book, the open spine resting at the reading angle, the person's head bent at the concentration. A child in the corner, age perhaps seven, reading what appeared to be a graphic novel, the images large and the text secondary, the child absorbed in the same quality of sustained reading that the fourteen-degree chair had been specified to enable. He looked at the child.

It was a guy, and he flashed me a smile before continuing to read the book he was holding. Smiling, I look down at my paperwork and peek up again, only to find his eyes on me once more.

He didn’t realize someone came in. A tall guy came to the store, leaving a strong aura of a rich kid. His stern face noticed a small guy reading a book near the entrance covering his face with an old book. Leaving him alone as he was, that tall guy went on his own on the innermost bookshelves to find some interesting books. Finally, Ryan completed the book. The last chapter made him sad, but it had a beautiful ending. People should read it again and again. He snapped closed the book, leaving it on the table where he sat. He went to find a new book to read.

She was just about to look back down at her notebook when someone stopped beside her table. “Excuse me.” Amara glanced up. A man stood there holding a book in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He looked about her age, maybe a little older, with curly brown hair and an easy, friendly expression. “Yes?” she said politely. He lifted the book slightly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I noticed you were reading the same author earlier.” Amara blinked. “Oh.” She looked down at the book beside her notebook. “You mean this?”

“The room changed its breathing.” She waited. He continued reading. Amelia closed the door. The latch clicked softly, and the sound traveled too far through the shelves. The man at the desk lifted one hand. The book before him closed, its cover settling with something like displeasure. Only then did he look at her. He was older than the others.

"He looked fine Nina." "Fine." A pause. "The man walked into my bookstore on a Wednesday morning, stood in the fiction section for four minutes holding a Fitzgerald like it personally owed him something, asked me if you liked working here, and you're telling me he looked fine." Liora pressed her lips together. "He asked about the Fitzgerald specifically?" she said carefully. "He didn't ask about it. He just picked it up." A pause. "The way he held it though Li. Like he didn't know why he was holding it and couldn't put it down. It was giving main character energy and he didn't even know it."

“So, if you don’t want me to come there, you know what to do.” I swallow and nod. Flipping through the pages, and strangely, I come to read through the pages. Massimo doesn’t have collection of fiction or entertaining books, only on finance and business, but this one is quiet interesting. It happens to pique my interest. I spend another half-an-hour or so reading it, when my eyes start to drop. A yawn leaves my lips and I stretch my legs. I look at him. He’s on the bed, one hand behind his head, the other scrolling lazily through his phone. The lamp’s warm glow catches on the scars along his forearm and knuckles, on the sharp planes of his shoulders.

I've got a lot of homework tonight. Joseph stopped her. "Get back here. We're already done. Go do your homework. Feel free to ask me if there's anything you don't understand. I've got nothing better to do anyway." He pulled out a medical textbook, leaned back on the couch, and began reading. The woman watched Joseph, but the more she observed him, the less she understood him. He'd bought medicine for her and was even entertaining her daughter. Now, he sat there reading a thick foreign-language book. He was a strange, mysterious man.

I followed the sound, my steps careful, like I was walking through something fragile. Evan stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still rumpled from sleep. He looked older in the morning light. Less composed. More human. “You didn’t have to make coffee,” I said softly. He turned. “I needed something to do with my hands.” I nodded. I understood that feeling too well. We stood there for a moment, the silence thick but not hostile. “I read the last pages,” I said finally. He stiffened. “I didn’t know if you would,” he replied.