Truth

The sad, Eeyore-ish bookseller is setting up his table in front of the bank, slowly unloading his crates, stacking his books.

I stride by on the way to the store to pick up breakfast, but as always, my gaze strays to the titles. 

I keep moving, gritting my teeth, "I love your books."

He shrugs, continues unloading, calls after me, "Not enough."