081613 #worm Not together, they smoke. She with her pliant, pretty boots up on the counter as she sits in the torn-up desk chair (that chair used to be in the owner's grandmother's house; it was where she sat when she squirted out the owner's mother. There's nothing like a chair someone was born in for easing out the aches of gravitational existence. But our bookseller doesn't realize the history of the chair. For all she knows, it's just a comfortable place to smoke and pretend to be working), and he with his eyes almost bugging out as he scans every single book on every single shelf, in order, from iou to alth. Someone else's lost history tapers down around the jaded rug of right now, like a juvenile candle burning up the evidence. Naked.