He hovers outside next to the front door, his trusty brown billiard pipe in hand. He tamps down a pinch of tobacco as he watches dozens of potential customers pass. Those who do enter his dusty little shop get a tip of his signature top hat.
For decades he has anchored this used bookstore, offering his extensive knowledge to the public by day and relaxing behind his large mahogany desk and reading the classics at night.
But then even his dedicated hands grew still…
He’s not sure how he’s expected to spend eternity, but he can think of worse ways.
The Weekday One Hundred 