With the proliferation of e-books and Amazon, some would consider it absurd that one of Jonathan's frequent haunts was a real, palpable bookstore. He even had a subscription, knowing when they brought in new stock. There was something irreplaceable about the smell, the feeling, of an actual book.
He sat in a plush leather chair in between the laughable titles of self-help books and the legitimate psychology section, thumbing through the stack of books on the coffee table in front of him. It was quieter here than in any chain bookstore and considering how much Jonathan spent here it wouldn't surprise him if he were the reason that it stayed open at all.
The mismatched chairs around the same coffee table were empty--the way he liked it. Occasionally he would hear the tingling of the bell at the door as new patrons entered, but largely he was left to his own thoughts.
Suddenly there was someone in his peripheral vision and he looked up lazily from his book without a word to see who had invaded his space.