South of Autumn City’s central park, the antiquarian book store’s sole saleswoman and owner mentally prepares herself to close the shop for the night.
The sun sets as romantically as possible, tempting one to ignore that its deep orange rays mainly fall on brick walls and concrete.
That these surfaces reflect a bit of that interstellar warmth makes them seem a whole less sulkily mundane.
Through the book store’s dusty windows, the light diffuses in a way that makes the shop’s interior look peculiarly dimmed by its rays.
The only matter the sun’s weakened beams finally get lost and settle in is the spider-web-like hair of the saleswoman, sitting behind a desk twice her age at
least, reading, of all things, Jane Austen. This is her way of preparing herself to close the shop.
She is the Paper Woman.