Santa's Dirty Obsession
I asked about his company, and he explained what he did in terms simple enough that I could actually follow.
And then, somewhere between stirring the sauce and grating cheese, I found myself telling him about my dream.
“I want to open a bookstore,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “A real one. With floor-to-ceiling shelves and a reading nook by the window and maybe a small café in the back. Somewhere people can come and just… exist. Get lost in stories. Find community.”
I glanced at him, expecting to see judgment or dismissal or that polite interest people gave when you told them about dreams they thought were foolish.