Abira waved back and pulled away from the curb, continuing on her way down the street and disappeared around a turn.
The small, cluttered bookstore was empty the next day. with only the sound of soft music playing up on the second floor. It wasn't often that they actually got alot of people in here, and if they did, they were complete bibliofiles, searching for some old, rare book and could spend hours upon hours in there, searching. There were cabinets everywhere, overflowing with books and a few big chairs here and there, also adorned with books. Just across from the front door was an old, black, spiral, wrought-iron staircase with an equally old rug rolled down the length of it. Just up on that second floor sat Abira at an acient-looking cabinent, a rose-red guitar sitting in her lap. A sheet of hair fell over her shoulder as her head was bent slightly, concentrating on what she was doing. Suddenly, she let out a heavy half-sigh, half-groan and tilted her head back, glaring up at the ceiling. She felt bored beyond bored and had nothing what so ever to do at that moment. The owner of the place had gone out and was usually pretty laid-back and kind, so Abira was free to do what she wanted more than half of the time unless there was a customer of course.
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