He stopped, blinking in the dimness at disparate shelves that forced him to wend his way to the counter. He marveled at the well-thumbed volumes with missing dust jackets no doubt relished and lent to friends or pulled from boxes in attics. He also spotted fresher tomes no doubt abandoned after a few pages.
“May I help you?” She’d yanked her hair into a painful-looking bun.
“I’d like Malory’s King Arthur book.”
“You don’t want Le Morte d’Arthur.”
“I don’t?”
“You want Geoffrey of Monmouth’s version.”
"Why?”
"He treats Guinevere better. It’s complex. Coffee?”
He headed for the door, fast.
“May I help you?” She’d yanked her hair into a painful-looking bun.
“I’d like Malory’s King Arthur book.”
“You don’t want Le Morte d’Arthur.”
“I don’t?”
“You want Geoffrey of Monmouth’s version.”
"Why?”
"He treats Guinevere better. It’s complex. Coffee?”
He headed for the door, fast.
