old bread
“Hello! Is this a bookstore! It’s a bookstore!” A tiny, shriveled, old man pulled open the door to our coworking space, struggling with the room divider we used for shade, and stepped inside. “Hi! Are these the books you have for sale?!” He eyed the single floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the corner of the room. Alexis stood up politely and began his canned response. “Hello. [big smile] It’s not a bookstore. This is a coworking space. It’s a gallery and performance space at night, and by day it’s a place for people who work from home to come in and work together. Like an alternative to a coffee-“ “Do you want to hear a story? Have I got a story for you! I am talking about HISTORY!” I looked up from my computer and thought about whether or not I should be annoyed. I was on a tight deadline, happy to sit in the quiet sunshine of the coworking space. Not so happy to be interrupted. But I liked stories. I looked over the tiny old man, his oversized