Anecdotes

Yesterday, while walking through downtown, I drifted into an old bookshop - the type that smells of musk and has a atmosphere of same yellowness of the aged pages of its books. The type where the shelves are bursting from books, each showing a slightly tattered cloth spine with words embossed in faded gold.

The owner of this bookshop had white hair and a handlebar moustache, was slightly thick around the waist. He wore his collared shirt and vest with comfortable dignity, even though it had faded through too many washes.

I picked up a reproduction of Seraut's "A Sunday Afternoon" to use as a reference for a drawing that still needs to be done. We spoke for a bit. He talks with the slow cadence of someone not from the ADD generation.

At the cashier, "Sorry, your name is...?" I asked, while paying.

He was handling the cashier when he mumbled back - "Leonard".

"L-E-O nard?" "yes." "I'm L-E-Nnard". We shook hands.

Lennard, meet Leonard. Leonard, meet Lennard. He invited me back, and I said I will. Next time with some tea and cookies