I'm a bookseller from terminal to train terminal
POSSIBLE he was a little sympathy I'm tired, while heading the sweat and fix the bag of clothing, beautiful eyes the woman was flicking no longer glance, even looked as if I wanted to approach him. Probably want to buy a book like I offer to the crowds of train passengers in this central city platform.rather than roughly 30 train rides, nine of them bought books I had brought with me.
Seeing a woman's shady look that might stop at my jamb, or maybe a book-laden clothing, I approached her and watched if there was her husband or anyone else who could accompany her on the train.
After the salutation I continued to pursue the book, "the master of poetry books?"
"Rhyme?" his voice was smooth and the way he picked up the book was so gentle as if his hands had been silk and I had been touched by his fingertips like a baldu.
"A collection of rhymes of Keretapi Orphan Ahmad yani," he slowly reads the title of the book and bids, then opens the middle sheet and mutters, reads several verses of poetry, "you may be more than content to see the life of your feminine lenses; the coming rush is not like you dream of living with a man, "
So that he looked at me, "You're the author of this book?"
"Yes,"
"Oh!" he said in a sweet voice.yes.
yeah
yep
aye
what else would I want to compare this woman's voice, maybe the rich-rich wife or the noble-blooded lord who likes the books, "I love this poem, mmm," then he read the title of the poem and called it slowly, "The Trainer a fire that misses the final journey to the most ending of the stesyen, "
"What does the train mean to you?" and yet I could answer, he cut, "Eh, why stand up? sit down,"
Then after putting the beg on the bench, I sat down and the end of my long shirt almost met his shoulder.she was wearing jeans and bluish shirts, her hood awaited.
"Why?" he asked, but did not defeat his reading on the poem.
"Why?"
"Why the train?"
"Life, for example, we live now, from day to day we encounter a variety of events with attitudes that are sometimes incompatible with the environment.there is a time we only see what we can harp, but left. Some are in their grasp, sometimes detached and all of them invite impression, hurt, angry, like, "and hate!"
"Oh yes?" I tried to feed this middle-aged woman, "You are also good at interpreting trains,"
He then laughed softly, but I did not look at that sweet face, I looked at the mole under his lips.maybe her husband was no longer interested or praised the mole and I did not get out, "Who's under the lip is a mole?"
"So what's that?" he said
"Oh sorry, I was not intentional,"
"No, why did not you ride the train selling your poetry book?"
"No. This is partly my draft.and since this book has just published, then I want to interpret by rail and selling books, "
"Oh, where are you working?"
"Full-time writer," I answered appropriately, then "May ask?"
"Can.Please,"
"Cik Puan's name?"
"Mmm," he cursed his voice, then showed the poem he read, "Non this form in your life huh?"
"Non?"
then he cleared his throat and read the rhymes, "you know Non after that day I do not know anymore about writing poems and this is the only note I write when we go south, you fall asleep next to me"
"Although he is my alus, maybe Non is a form, probably not.Why?"
"You asked me my name right?"
"Yes!" my forehead creased, "Your name is Non?"
The woman with the red lipstick laughed as she bit her lip and looked up a bit, "Yes! My name is Non.
I held my breath. God!