Anyway the Good Omens social media crew can try to convince us that the lights are off and the bookshop is closed.
But the bookshop in my brain is still open. Only on weekends, or the occasional open stint on a quiet midweek day or two, but Whickber Street still bustles around it. It still exists, and is still tended to by a fussy, soft bookseller and his angular, hot headed, but incredibly loving husband. No one was invited to the wedding, needless to say. They just kind of showed up wearing rings one day, and no one had ever thought to ask when they tied the knot, or in fact if they ever even did.
And within its walls are a stock room, still painted yellow; a bedroom, now shared by a snoozing demon and a reading angel, on the weekend and those hazy midweek days; and a desk which never gets dusty or messy.
Thereâs also a cottage in the South Downs, with a large green house and vegetable plots which miraculously never deplete, and roses which bloom year round; thereâs an armchair which has a worn down left arm cushion, from where a demon drapes himself over his angel more often than he sits on the matching chair across from it; a bedroom, shared, again; and the sounds of two lives well lived, infinite happiness and love beyond measure echoing within its floral, wallpapered walls.
Sometimes thereâs still a free table at The Ritz just for them. The piano plays a familiar song softly, in time with the song of a Nightingale, and two immortal beings toast to a World which never closes or goes away, which never shuts, and which never ends.
