Woman Reading Book Novels & Stories

And then I walked towards the young lady who was reading a book. She was so immobile, that even when I took the book from her, she did not make any response or reaction. I hold the book closer to my face, while looking intently at the book my head starts to ache. I turned the pages of the book, and on the last page, there is a hand writing, it says: Please take care of this book. Love, Irina.

like a big deal, I noted reading through so interesting titles, but not the specific one I was looking for. I swooped through the titles vainly searching for the one book I needed, to no avail. I groaned turning around, leaning on a shelf. I watched as a woman came into the row with a bunch of books in her arms and started packing them. A librarian. Bingo. I walked towards her, tapping her on the shoulder, "excuse me miss," She turned towards me, pushing her glasses down. She looked a little over forty, with hints of wrinkles but luscious brown hair pulled up in a bun. She wore a plain grey dress that went a little way past her knees.

, she hugged him for a long while. She got inside and moved to the attendant. “Good day madam, I’d like to get a s…” “You can’t find one here I’m sorry”, she said sparing her only a glance before going back to the book in her hand. Raisel noticed it was a book on plants. Raisel stared in surprise, “This is the library" The lady peered closely from beneath her glasses, “You want a book?”, she asked in disbelief. “Of course I do, is that so hard to understand?”

The woman took the book from the desk and signed it back in the log. After that, Snow returned it to its shelf and considered finding another book. She walked toward the staircase leading to the upper hall, her eyes shimmering at how bright and beautiful the library looked. Books—rows and rows of them—all containing knowledge about themselves, other kinds, and more. She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books when her gaze landed on a particular one. “Mate Bond,” she muttered. She probably shouldn't be reading it, but her curiosity was suddenly piqued.

Another sigh escaped him, this one edged in irritation. While he waited, he studied the Maddox woman. She was cute, doe-eyed, with a shy smile and svelte, but curvy build. And one of the most sensual mouths he’d ever seen, framed up nicely by the shoulder-length cut of her dark hair. She was also big-time brainy. The book she’d been reading was a veritable War and Peace, full of long strings of complex equations he’d seen as he wandered by casually, scoping her out.

So I finally look up and see an eight-year-old girl annihilate my front display like she’s reenacting Fast & Furious: Bookstore Drift. Books everywhere. Glorious chaos. Behind her is a woman. A beautiful woman. A diner-uniform, exhausted beyond salvation, mascara-smudged, hair-falling-out-of-the-bun-but-still-somehow-sexy beautiful woman. She stops dead when the books hit the floor. “Oh my God—no, no, no—I’m so sorry—she’s just—today has been—I—please don’t kick us out—” The panic in her voice is pure, distilled chaos.

I thought about the six books. I thought about Arthur. She'll know that. I thought about a woman reading to feel less alone for twenty-nine years and the specific and worn spines of the books she had returned to and the receipt used as a bookmark and the full and attentive quality of a person who was genuinely inside a book, genuinely finding in it the thing she had gone looking for. I thought: she opened the first one. I thought: she is telling me she opened the first one. I thought: she is telling me she knows.

She reached for it. The Weight of Silence. Her thumb traced the letters. Something inside her stirred. “That looks like a good one,” Amy said, peeking. Camellia whispered, “Yeah…” “Beautiful choice,” came a voice behind her. She turned. A woman stood there—elegant, warm-eyed, carrying herself with quiet grace. Her hair was styled in a ponytail and her scent lingered in the air. “That book,” the woman said gently, “is about healing. People don’t pick it up unless they need it.”

The smell of old paper and coffee wrapped around her like a blanket. "Can I help you?" asked the woman behind the counter. She was older, with gray hair and kind eyes and reading glasses perched on her nose. "I'm just looking," Emma said. "Take your time. That's what books are for." Emma wandered the aisles. She ran her fingers along the spines. She pulled out a novel, read the first page, put it back. She pulled out another, read the first paragraph, held it to her chest. This one, she thought.