mimibookish

[mimibookish]

𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔥

[mimibookish]

my kinda summer afternoons

[mimibookish]

Chapter Six: Chapter Six: The Missing Gloves

That weekend, I had to work both Saturday and Sunday.

On Saturday, he came in. But with Laura stationed firmly beside me at the register, conversation felt impossible—like trying to speak with someone while holding your breath. Sunday was different. He appeared again, a book in his hand. When he reached the counter, his smile was warm, familiar.

“Hello, here I am again.”

I smiled back, passing him his purchase. “Hallo! There you go. You don’t need a bag, right?”

He shook his head, and for once, I didn’t let the moment pass.

“So, on Thursday… what time do you open? I think I usually get here too early.”

He smiled—but then, unexpectedly, colour rose to his cheeks.

“Yeah, that’s right… I saw you walk past last time. That was my fault. We open at three, but I still had some cleaning to do and it took a while. So I’d say I open around half past three… make sure to come around then.”

I nodded, smiling. “Alright, good to know… next time I’ll come a bit later then.”

The moment he left, I slipped into the back room—not to work, but to let my blush fade.

Valentine’s Day came a few days later.

I hadn’t thought about it at all until it was already here. My outfit was for a different occasion entirely: a fitted suit, white blouse, and my clock-shaped handbag—planned for a gallery visit with my sister. She cancelled at the last minute, so I invited Henry and Elena instead. They agreed, and we decided to get drinks first.

At 17:15, I stepped into the bar. It was quiet—only Elijah and one other customer.

When he saw me, he smiled.

“Ayla, coffee?” I nodded, took a seat, and pulled out my diary and my book. My bag sat on the table like a small clockwork ornament. When he returned with my coffee, his eyes lingered on it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Cool.” I laughed, thanking him.

Henry and Elena were thirty-five minutes late. In that time, I caught him catching me—my glances, my half-hidden curiosity. I tried to be subtle, but warmth still bloomed in my cheeks.

When my friends finally arrived, Elena wasn’t in the mood for the gallery anymore, and Henry suggested pool. I admitted I’d never played, and they insisted I come along. I hesitated, but gave in. When it was time to pay, I told Elijah I’d cover for both of them. He nodded, smiling, but there was no space for more than that. As I left, I cleared our table so he wouldn’t have to.

“Ah, that’s sweet,” he said, his voice softer than usual. We went to the gaming center, played pool, had dinner, wandered the city, then parted ways.

The next day at work, the shop was a blur—constant movement, constant noise.

At 17:15, Elijah arrived to pick up an order: a French philosophical book.

As he set it on the counter, I hesitated for a moment before asking,

“Question… have you by any chance found some leather gloves?”

He looked surprised. “Ah, I don’t think so. Someone else did the cleaning—I’ll ask around and let you know.”

“Black gloves?” he added. I nodded. “Black leather gloves.”

“Aaah… that’s gonna be a tough one.” I shrugged. “Yeah… I’ll probably just buy new ones.” We said goodbye, and he left. He didn’t come the next day. 

By Friday, February 21st—Henry’s birthday—we had plans again. We played pool until seven, then decided to stop by the bar for one last drink. When I walked in, he greeted me with a smile and a casual,

“Well, hello there.”

I smiled back, took a seat. A little later, he walked over, rested his hand lightly against my back, and said, almost gently,

“I haven’t found them.”

I smiled. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I had a feeling you wouldn’t.” I laughed softly and ordered a coffee while Henry and Elena decided. When my coffee came, 

Elena asked, “Do you guys have sparkling water?”

He nodded.

“Could I get a sparkling water with vodka?” she added politely.

He smiled, amused. “Ah, and that’s what we call a skinny bitch.”

We all laughed.

“Yeah, well, I was trying to be polite,” Elena replied, and the laughter came again as he turned to make it.

We stayed for a while, talking, before I had to leave ahead of the others.

As I reached the door, I saw him watching me. I smiled, waved—heat rising to my cheeks again—and stepped out without looking back.

Later, Elena texted me: He waved after you left… and he was smiling.

[mimibookish]

𝔰𝔬𝔣𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱, 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡

[mimibookish]

[mimibookish]

𝔠𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

[mimibookish]

ig credit: meshariver

[mimibookish]

𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔠𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰

[mimibookish]

Chapter Five: Names

Sunday began badly and only worsened from there.

I woke up late, skipped breakfast, forgot to pack lunch, and threw on an outfit that made me feel wrong in my own skin. By the time I arrived at the bookstore, I already knew the day would be long. We were short-staffed, the new shipment had arrived, and there were orders to process on top of the constant stream of customers—many of whom “didn’t usually read” but wanted me to find them a book they might somehow like.

Between registering and pricing stacks of fresh titles, juggling impatient clients, and dodging the kind of questions that make you doubt humanity’s reading habits, the hours blurred together. Two people to run the whole shop—it wasn’t enough.

By five o’clock, I was done. Exhausted. Starving. I decided to pick up burgers and fries for dinner because there was no way I was cooking. The place was nearly empty, so I was in and out quickly.

I was biking home, mind drifting toward weekend plans, when I looked up—and there he was Mr. E. Walking toward me on a quiet street far from his bar. Far from my work. Out of context. Unexpected. I was sure he recognized me. And yet—panicking, I turned my head the other way, adjusted my headphones, pretended I hadn’t seen him. I looked like hell. Just my luck.

A week later, Elena and I met for our usual catch-up. Late lunch first, then a vinyl store where I was hunting for Etta James. We browsed and laughed until I found it—my find of the week—and bought it without hesitation. By five, we wandered into his bar. The moment I stepped inside, he looked up and smiled. I smiled back.

“Hi,” I said, as casually as possible before slipping into my seat. After a moment, I got up to order.

“Hello… could I get a chamomile tea and a coffee?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

Then I hesitated. “Question… By any chance, did you happen to see a copy of Pride and Prejudice last Saturday evening?”

The way he smiled—it was almost boyish. He nodded, turned to reach behind the register, and pulled out the book. My book. Hidden away all this time.

“I thought so—who left that behind? And when would she be coming back to pick it up?”

I laughed, blushing so hard it almost hurt. “Thank you,” I managed.

Elena and I kept talking about work—her work, her wanting to change jobs—and eventually decided to leave. I walked to the bar to pay.

“Could I pay by card?”

He smiled, nodded, and then—out of nowhere—asked, “What is your name, actually?”

I blinked, caught off guard, then smiled. “Ayla.”

He pointed to himself, grinning. “Elijah. Pleased to meet you.” I laughed.

“I thought so—I’d seen your name once in the orders. You put it at work…” He chuckled. “Well then, Ayla, that makes things easier.”

I blushed. He handed me the receipt with another small smile. “There you go.” And just as I was about to leave, he said goodbye again.

The following week, I asked Elena to help me with a project I was stuck on. She’s brilliant at graphic design, where I’m only middling; I’m better at coding, where she’s average. Together, we balance each other out. I suggested we go to his bar at three—opening hour. It would be quiet. Empty. A perfect place to work. She smiled, seeing straight through me.

We walked in together.

“Hello, Ayla,” he said immediately.

I smiled, trying not to give myself away. I took my usual spot—back to the wall, window on my right—while he came over. “Should I close the window?”

It was late January. Still cold. Elena and I both nodded. Then he looked directly at me.

“Ayla, coffee?”

I grinned. “Actually, tea today. Black, if you have it.”

He nodded and returned with my tea and Elena’s coffee. We worked, the quiet hum of the bar wrapping around us. It felt comfortable. Almost natural.

When it was time to pay, I went to the bar. He smiled as I tapped my card. The machine took its time, and he laughed.

“How exciting,” he said lightly.

I laughed too, took my card, and said goodbye.

And that was all. Simple moments. Small shifts. But they were adding up.

[mimibookish]

instagram | photos are my own, reblogs fine, do not repost/reuse

[mimibookish]

Chapter Four: The Missed Glance

After a horrible and tiring week, elena suggested we meet up and talk about it. I was at first recuelent bur endup agreeing. Around 5pm elena texted me she made it to the bar and I was still getting ready. I rushed to get dressed and ran out to take my bysicle to the bar. As I was on the bike Elena had called me loudly over the phone:

“Ayla! What do you want to drink?”

I cringed. But didn’t understand why shoud would yell or order for me. I explain I will order when I come but she insited and I heard she said 

“Ayla will have a coffee, thank you” 

The place was nearly empty: just us, a quiet couple by the window, and him—Mr. E, with a stack of papers in front of him and an expression that suggested anything but focus. He turned the same page twice in under a minute. I noticed. I always notice.

Elena and I spoke about nothing in particular—weekend plans, annoying coworkers, the weather. I casually dropped that I never worked Saturdays, only Sundays. It was a flimsy hope, I know, but I wanted the information to land somewhere useful. Maybe he'd show up. Maybe he'd remember.

About an hour in, we called Henry and somehow convinced him to join us. While we waited, I ordered a cola. A few minutes later, a group came in and left the door open, letting a sharp winter draft swirl through the bar. Instinctively, I wrapped my scarf around myself like a cocoon. That’s when I heard him.

“please closed the door ! there is a wind rushing in !”

He Clearly not cold. He had a button on shirt and the first 2 buttons were un buttond. He saw that I was cold and made sure the door got closed.

I looked down, cheeks hot, pretending not to hear it—but every cell in me had.

Eventually, it was time to leave. I picked up our empty glasses and brought them to the bar—an unnecessary gesture, but one that felt right. Elena paid, and I handed her a ten-euro note even though the bill was fifteen.

"Don’t be redicilus ! its more than the half, take your money back!” she protested.

I waved her off. "Nooo, keep it. It’s fine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mr. E watching us. His smile was soft, amused, like he was seeing a side of me that didn’t involve nerves or pretending to read. I waved goodbye. He didn’t say anything, but he watched me go.

Sunday came. I worked my usual shift and found myself glancing toward the door every half hour, as if expecting something or someone to walk in. He’d heard me say I’d be there. He’d been listening. Hadn’t he?... But he didn’t come.

A week later, I was shelving books, lost in thought, my face set in its usual expression of intense focus—what my friends lovingly call my “resting bitch face.” I wasn’t even supposed to be doing this. Technically, I should’ve been at the register, but a certain charmingly useless colleague had passed the task off to me again.

I was mid-shelf when someone appeared in front of me. I didn’t register him right away. Just a man. Standing there. Waiting. I looked up, blankly.

Then he smiled. “Hi.”

It hit me all at once. Mr. E.

My brain short-circuited. I managed a polite smile, nodded—probably too fast—and turned away before he could see the blush rising up my neck. I busied myself in another aisle, pretending I had something important to do, even though my hands were trembling slightly.

That night, I decided to go back to the bar—with Elena and Henry this time. I thought maybe, just maybe, the day’s strange little interaction had stirred something in him, too. Maybe we were circling closer to whatever this thing was between us.

But he wasn’t there. The woman who sometimes worked with him was running the place alone. I felt foolish, sitting in that same space, hoping for a glimpse of someone who didn’t come.

And then… I did something I probably shouldn’t have.

As we got up to leave, I lingered by the window. Quietly, without Elena or Henry noticing, I slipped my copy of Pride and Prejudice onto the sill. Not just any copy—the one I bought in Bosnia. The one I always carried around like a talisman.

Inside, I’d written my name. And my number. Just in case he found it. Just in case he wanted to call.

[mimibookish]

Chapter Three: The Wait

It had been a while since I last stepped foot in Mr. E’s bar. Life had gotten busy, time had slipped away, and I’d grown cautious—too cautious, maybe. That evening, Elena and I were catching up on the phone, exchanging fragments of our weeks, when I suddenly blurted out, 

“Girl. Let’s go out for drinks tonight. I miss you. I really wanna talk in person. I’ll text Henry too. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sure. Where?”

“I’ll send you the address. See you there.”

We agreed to meet at five. I was, as always, on time. They were, as always, not.

Thirty-five minutes passed before they arrived. Thirty-five minutes where I sat alone—just me, my nerves, and the slow realization that I’d walked straight into his orbit again. The moment I entered, Mr. E looked up. His spine straightened slightly, his eyes lit up, and he smiled in that quiet, open way that always made me feel like something important had just happened.

I took a seat near the bar, close enough to see him move behind it, his motions fluid and practiced. I pulled out my iPad and a book—more for comfort than for reading—and tried to act like I hadn’t noticed him noticing me.

Moments later, he leaned slightly across the bar. 

“What can I get you?” I looked up, startled, then smiled. 

“A coffee, please.”

He disappeared behind the espresso machine. I pulled out my phone, trying to text Elena and Henry, who still hadn’t answered. A few minutes later, he returned and placed the coffee gently in front of me. “Here you go.” I thanked him, and for a moment, he lingered—his head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze flicking toward my book. But he said nothing.

I tried to focus on reading, but I was far too aware of everything—his movements, the way the light hit the counter, the silence between us. Every few minutes, I’d glance up, and almost every time, I’d find his eyes already on me. Not intensely. Not even deliberately. Just… there.

Eventually, my nerves got the better of me. I called my sister to distract myself, switching to French without thinking. We laughed and gossiped, the kind of animated back-and-forth that fills silence with something safe. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Mr. E glance over again—but I wasn’t sure.

Finally, Elena and Henry arrived. He greeted them politely, offering his usual charm and ease. We chatted for a couple of hours, and though I tried to stay present, part of me kept drifting back to him—his small smiles, the subtle glances, the feeling of something just under the surface.

When it was time to leave, I walked toward the door. I turned briefly to say something to Elena, and that’s when I saw it: Mr. E, watching me, smiling. It wasn’t the usual polite smile. It was softer. Warmer. He raised his hand in a quiet wave. And just like that, I felt my heartbeat stutter, stupid and hopeful.

2 weels mater I came back. This time, there was no pretense. No friends. Just me and a quiet resolve I wasn’t sure I actually had. I walked in, and there he was. Our eyes met. He smiled.

I settled into my usual corner and pulled out L’Étranger by Camus, hoping the weight of French existentialism would ground me. A few minutes later, Mr. E approached me.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” I nodded, careful not to sound too eager.

His eyes dropped briefly to my book, and he smiled. That barely-there kind of smile that made my stomach flip.

When he returned with the coffee, I paused—just long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, impulsively, I looked up.

“Sorry,” I began, “Can I ask you a weird question?”

He raised an eyebrow, half-curious, half-amused. “Go ahead. Ask your weird question.”

I bit my lip. “Could you open this little milk carton for me? I hurt my hand.”

Without hesitation, he reached for it. His fingers brushed the back of my shoulder—light, almost accidental. He laughed softly.

“That’s not a weird question at all,” he said. “Here you go.”

And just like that, he opened it for me. Simple. Effortless. Kind. He placed it beside my cup, gave me another small smile, and walked back behind the bar.

I stared down at my coffee, feeling oddly victorious. Not because of the milk. But because somehow, in that tiny, shared moment, the silence between us had shifted. Just a little. Just enough.

[mimibookish]

@lovesdaya

[mimibookish]

Chapter Two: The Bar

It was a Friday, when I decided to visit his bar. I didn’t go alone. Claire, my new coworker, had just started at the bookstore, and I’d casually suggested grabbing a drink after our shift. She knew about Mr. E in that vague, "oh, he’s a regular" kind of way. What she didn’t know, at least not officially, was how deep the crush ran.

The moment we walked in, he looked up and smiled. Not just politely. Brightly. Like he didn’t just recognize me as the girl from the bookstore anymore, but as something a little closer, someone familiar, someone whose presence actually meant something. Like a friend, almost. An almost-friend... 

He walked over to take our order and said, in that familiar teasing tone, “Hey there! Now it’s my turn to serve you for once.” I laughed. Claire, clueless and curious, blinked at him, then at me. “He’s a regular,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Comes in every Saturday.” She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He chuckled, adding, “I live nearby, on Maplewick Road” I nodded as this was new information. “Ah, that’s close to the store.” He just smiled and walked off to prepare our drinks.

He brought me coffee, Claire red wine, and for the next two hours, we talked, half-aware of the occasional glances he sent in our direction. Always that soft smile, quiet, but knowing. I kept catching myself mid-sentence, suddenly distracted by the way his eyes landed on me.

When it was time to leave, I walked to the bar to pay. “Can I pay in cash?” I asked. “Also, I’m covering both of us.” “Of course! We actually prefer that,” he said with a grin. I smiled. “great, here and Have a nice evening.” “You too,” he said warmly.

I was halfway to the door when, completely out of the blue. I heard him call out, “Byee!” Loud. Playful. Enough to make me jump. I laughed all the way out the door, heart racing just a little faster than before.

The next day, like clockwork, he walked into the bookstore. I was at the register with Claire, showing her how things worked. As soon as he approached, I instinctively took over, trying to play it cool. We didn’t say much. I barely looked up.

But then Claire suddenly blurted, “Hey! You’re from that café, from Thursday night!” My face turned red. He smiled. “Ah yes, that’s right. You were both there.” I nodded quickly and turned away, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. Claire, oblivious and chipper, added, “Well then, that’s going to be our new café from now on!” Still smiling, he nodded, “Sounds good. we take turns then: I come to you, and you come to me”. He said it while looking right at me.

I nodded again, not daring to meet his eyes. My face was on fire, and all I could think was: heavens, I hope he didn’t hear my heart beating this loud.

[mimibookish]

Chapter One: The Man from Saturdays

I work in a cozy little bookstore nestled on a quiet cobbled street, the kind of place that smells like dust and stories. And every Saturday, like clockwork, a man walks in—always at the same hour, always with the same calm stride. His name, at least to me, was once just Mr. E

Mr E was older. Not just in years, but in the way he carried silence like a well-worn coat. He was charming in an understated, unbothered way that made me wonder if he even knew it. And I had a stupid, impossible crush on him.

The first real exchange between us happened at the start of summer. He came in to buy a French novel. As I rang up the book, I blurted, “Ah, that’s such a good book, I speak French too.” I couldn’t help myself; the words slipped out in that overeager way they sometimes do when nerves get the better of you.

He looked up with a half-smile. “Good to know,” he said. Just three words, and I was already fumbling. In my distracted state, I accidentally stamped his loyalty card four times instead of one. I laughed awkwardly. “Oops uh, that’s too many, but… oh well!” He chuckled. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated.” That was all it took to deepen the crush. A week later, I was walking past a nearby pub—HIS  pub—and there he was, sitting out front. As I passed in front of it with a friend, he whistled a tune. Not just any tune. His tune. The same one he always whistled in the bookstore. My heart twisted.

And then, two weeks later, something odd happened.

I was chatting with Jamie, one of my favorite regulars—sharp-witted, hilarious, and proudly flamboyant. That day, I complimented his bold shirt emblazoned with a Free Palestine design. We were laughing, as usual, but when I glanced across the store, I caught Mr E  watching us. His gaze didn’t waver. After Jamie left with a flirty, “Alright, darling, I won’t keep you from the books,” I turned back to Mr E , hoping to catch his eye. But he was quiet. Colder. Not unkind, just distant in a way I couldn’t place. We endp not talking a lot and I went off for a break so I couldn’t see him.

A month later, he dropped his key by the counter. I’d been leaning by the window, lost in a daydream, and didn’t notice right away. “Oh! sorry,” I stammered. “I was daydreaming.”

He smiled. “Daydreaming is healthy.”

“Not too much, though… You don’t need a bag, right?”

“No, thanks,” he replied. I handed him a filled loyalty card and a new one. He nodded his thanks and turned to leave. I sighed out loud—too loud—and turned scarlet. When I dared to glance up, I saw him pause near the door. He looked toward the window, his ears pink. My mind raced. Was he flustered too? Or was I imagining it? Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he was just warm.

But hope is a stubborn little thing…

[mimibookish]

[mimibookish]

𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔲𝔪𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔨𝔢 🍂