In Booksale

A man of about fifty rummages through stacks of National Geographic back issues with utmost determination. He is oblivious to other people in the store, not budging an inch when a teenage girl attempts to squeeze in next to him to reach for a copy of Seventeen, and not even when she later exhaled in frustration. He exudes an air of superciliousness, unknowingly perhaps, like he is doing something of extreme importance. He inspects each magazine very carefully, flipping it over, feeling the edges, holding it up to the light, squinting an eye to examine the spine for bruises. He eyes the yellowed, dogeared books like they are diamonds, raw and uncut, and he, a master jeweler. Some magazines date back to the 1950s, and these he lovingly sorts into a neat pile next to him. Perhaps, they are diamonds.