|Location||Wee Book Inn - Greenwich Village|
|Summary||Rosalie works at Wee Book Inn, apparently!|
| Few bookstores linger in this digital day and age, but Wee Books has fought hard to retain its scrap of real estate, and as a result, it's one of the most visited shops in the Village.
The place is a warren of shelves, a labyrinth of closely-stacked book piles. It's easy to get lost inside the shop, which has expanded with a twist of staircases and side doors to encompass two stories and several additional storefronts. The books here are new and used alike, and though sorted by genre, a good browsing is generally required to find anything in particular. Wee Books caters to just about every crowd it can; it carries a wide variety of fiction, both historical and new, as well as non fiction ranging from philosophy to hobbyists guides to cookbooks. A small, locked-off section is even devoted to rare, antique books.
Nearly every free nook or cranny holds some sort of furniture designed for reading. Here it's a cushy wingchair, there it's an aging library carrel or an overstuffed bean bag. The place is large and twisty enough that it feels possible to remain lost and undisturbed for several hours, if you choose the right spot.The presence of a small cafe near the entrance only adds to the homey atmosphere. The place smells like old books and fresh coffee, with the underlying sweetness of fresh muffins or cinnamon rolls to tie it all together. And if you're very lucky, you may gain the favor of the Inn's resident rumpled tabbycat, Milo.
Outside it is warm, with all the savage heavy heat of New York in summer, but the bookstore is cool. Cold, almost, with that arctic edge that seems to indicate over-aggressive air conditioning. It's quiet today, a cool haven full of books in the crowded city.
Rosalie is halfway up a ladder used to access some of the higher bookshelves, which is marked with a sign of jarring yellow: STAFF ONLY. Except, at the moment, she isn't retrieving or replacing books. Instead, she's settled on a rung, a book on her lap, thoroughly absorbed in it. She wears a gauzy summer dress, dainty and white with sleeves that slip off the shoulder, her brown hair in a thick braid.
Tiffany has shared an apartment with several cats for the last twenty-four hours. By that virtue alone, all of her hair-ties have gone missing and so, she suffers through her blackish shoulder-length hair being tucked back behind her ears. She wears a thin baseball-tee, denim cutoffs, and her only pair of flats. The heat in combination with dizzy-spells that occur with more and more frequency have certainly put a damper on her personal style.
The quaint little bell attached to the door jingles as Tiffany steps inside. With slow moving confidence, she lowers her heart-shaped sunglasses. Peering over them, she surveys the little bookstore, half expecting those two bitches from Portlandia to pop up.
The sound of the bell startles Rosalie. She stands up in a hurry, the book sliding from her lap, and nearly falls off the ladder, rescuing herself with a quick grab at the side. The book lands on the floor with a thump. She then attempts to descend quickly, resulting in her performing a maneuver that is far closer to her sliding down the rungs than actually climbing down. In the process, the skirt of her sundress gets caught up about her waist in a most undignified manner. "Julie?" she calls, sounding half helpless as she stoops to retrieve the fallen book. Whoever Julie is, she does not answer, and the temperature of the bookstore turns slightly less arctic. Rosalie scurries toward the counter, book in her arms, skirt still in disarray, and mutters quickly, "Ifwecanhelpyouwithsomethingpleaseletmeknow," without really looking toward the new arrival.
"Super cute underwear," Tiffany remarks dryly as she makes her way further in. Plucking her sunglasses off of her face and tucking them in the collar of her t-shirt, she... does not change expressions. "Does Julie know about those?"
It _is_ cute underwear. It's white and lacy. Rosalie immediately turns very pink, and sets down the book to try to smooth down her skirts. "My underwear is not Julie's job," she replies in an undertone. "Julie's job is manning the counter and dealing with customers. I--er--deal with the book database." Which she had been working diligently on before Tiffany entered, yep. "But she keeps wandering away every time she sees someone cute. And--" She clears her throat, and adds, finally, "Tiffany."
"Ro Number Two," Tiffany acknowledges Rosalie as she, herself, is named. Cue existential crisis. "Well, don't let me bother you. I'm just looking for." She holds up one finger. "Poetry." She holds up two fingers. "New Arrivals." She holds up three fingers, but turns them to gesture towards a low table that she believes might bit the description, "Employee Recommendations?"
"Ro...number two?" echoes Rosalie in some confusion. Her fingers fidget with the end of her braid, twining into the strands of her brown hair. "Er. There's a shelf with New Arrivals over there." She indicates said shelf with a wave of her braid. "And that's the recommendations table. Poetry's...a bit buried. Go down that aisle there, turn right at the bean bag, and then left at the wingchair, and make sure you don't trip on the cat."
Tiffany doesn't explain, preferring to leave Rosalie guessing. "Aren't you afraid that the cat is going to claw open the bean bag?" She asks without too much concern, running her fingers along the hip-level shelves as she winds over towards the new arrivals. She doubts she'll see her book there, but it's worth a shot. Every one of her movements is still and calculated, especially where her head is concerned. Even as she bends forward just slightly to look over the available covers, her lashes give a distinct flutter before her hair falls down to block her face from view.
Rosalie blinks at her. "No," she says honestly. "I never really thought about it." She fidgets for a moment, still toying with her braid, as Tiffany wanders away. The new arrivals shelf is a confusion of various genres and authors, spanning many genres and markets, and although Tiffany's book is not immediately visible, the collection that is does not dismiss the possibility it might be tucked somewhere. "Are you looking for something in particular?" asks Rosalie, her gaze following Tiffany.
"Mm-no, nothing in particular," Tiffany says as she presses her fingertip along the man book spines, clearly looking for something in particular. Running her other hand through her hair, she half-tucks most of it back behind her ear, allowing a few strands to fall where they may.
"I could check the computer?" offers Rosalie uncertainly, obviously unconvinced by Tiffany's statement. She clears her throat, and watches the trail of Tiffany's fingertips along the book spines.
Chafing gently against the spine of a black and orange book, Tiffany's nails are kept relatively short. They are painted a deep merlot. "I'm not really a computer person," Tiffany answers with a brief squinting-shut of her eyes. She'd rather be down in the trenches with the books. Standing erect once more, she brings a few fingers to press into her temple and steady herself. Criss crossing her feet as she goes, the poet side-steps to continue further down the shelf.
"But they're a quick way to see what books we do have," replies Rosalie with all the conviction of someone who has spent a great deal of her life sorting and cataloguing and organizing things. Including books. She blinks a moment later, and takes a step forward with a soft rustle of her sundress. "Are you all right?"
Rosalie's voice is heard, but as if from just beneath the surface of a pool. Tiffany bats her eyelashes, shifting her gaze back over to the bookstore clerk, "What?" She asks, giving the slightest shake of her head as if in apology.
Rosalie fidgets again, but this time with fingers entwining with fingers instead of her braid. "I'm sorry," she says hesitantly. "You looked--a little unsteady there for a moment. It's hot there. Sometimes people go a bit funny in the heat."
"Must have stood up too fast." The explanation is offered with minimal thought and even less concern before she returns, very briefly to her search. "I don't think you have it." She sighs, peaking back towards Rosalie with raised eyebrows, "That's okay. Thank you."
"I thought you weren't looking for anything in particular," points out Rosalie. This time she stops herself from fidgeting by crossing her arms across her chest, which keeps her hands still but has the side-effect of pushing her breasts up a bit. "We could order it?" she offers. "If you like. Sometimes we miss things."
"I deliberately deceived you," counterpoints Tiffany. Deadpan, she crosses her arms as well with similar effects. "Cold in here, huh?" She mumbles drolly, blinking as she veers casually away from the new arrivals, "No thanks, I was just going to move any copies I found to the recommendation shelf while you weren't looking."
"Well." Rosalie blinks at her, confused for a moment. "Well, that's not nice," is her thundering putdown. Very not nice indeed. Her chin goes up a little, and she stretches up a little, trying to look a little less terribly sort. "I've been working on that. Trying to maintain temperature when I'm...distracted." It's a little less cold now. "Oh?"
Tiffany prowls forward, arching gradually towards the register before appearing the veer more towards the exit. "And this is the temperature that you chose?" Tiffany arches an eyebrow. One corner of her mouth twitches up. The question isn't the sort that necessarily requires a response. Evidently, neither does Rosalie's, 'Oh?'
"It's very hot out," insists Rosalie. "People like the cold. Sometimes it takes work to keep it, but it's nice. In August." She considers Tiffany, her jaw set stubbornly. She screws up her mouth, an expression, it seems, of concentration. An even colder breeze, cold like the depths of winter, springs to life, apparently aimed right at Tiffany's breasts.
"Stop that," Tiffany demands dryly at first before a small giggle escapes her. She cracks a smile, shifting her arms to cover her chest in earnest now that Rosalie has turned her into a fucking fembot ready to shoot on sight. "This is a place of business," she adds with little to no enthusiasm, shifting her eyes around the shop, "Judy might lose an eye."
"That was an accident," insists Rosalie, with a little smile playing about her mouth. (Spoiler: it wasn't.) "It was meant to go over my head." (Yeah, right.) "Besides, she'd have to drive right into you… No, actually, Julie might." She sighs in a way that is both disapproving and slightly envious.
"Perv," Tiffany scoffs, rolling her large eyes very dramatically as she steps towards the door. Honestly, it's said in a pretty endearing tone of voice. As she pushes the door open, she turns so that it hits her shoulder. It's just as much to eye Rosalie with flirtatious amusement as it is to keep her arms crossed. The door jingles behind her as she steps out into the summer heat.Rosalie's eyes widen. "Me?" she whispers in shock, or at least semi-shock, but she tosses Tiffany a shy little smile as she disappears.