The Cobbler's Handkerchief

A momentary silence ushered the Cobbler to the front door of the shop. A pair of debonair and neatly polished shoes walked calmly to the shoes left by a shortly gone customer, before pulling a virtuous, pure silk white handkerchief out of his breast pocket, holding the cloth in his matured hand gently, allowing it to be laid down in his grasp before travelling down inside his hand towards the shoes. His movements where chosen with an instant precision and calm ambience, picking up the classic footwear and taking them to the back room to restore later.

An insipid, vacant looking mug sat on the worn oak coffee table. The mug filled with a seemingly seraphic liquid was held in place by the cool air in a diffident manner, bus was still tempted to be drunk by the small man slouched in an armchair next to it. The Cobbler's hand stretched to the mug and he gulped the tea down, the foul taste with an amalgam of tawdry and the lack of any taste stuck in his craw on the way down, the bitterness not changing his expression and the mug was placed on the table where it originally was sat. His eyes flickered across the room, his eyes reflecting the same burning embers that glowed and shone iridescent patterns across his small framed spectacles. Evenings frequently resembled this one playing now. A mug of mediocre at best tea and a good book was enough for his humdrum lifestyle. The consignment of books were displayed across the many primordial shelves above the large hearth, the inviting look of dark, unlighted, foregone and classical novels, autobiographies, biographies and non fiction tomes were all allocated in their correct places. His fingers glided along the spines of the novels, his skin feeling the paper on the tips of his fingers as his eyes searched intently for the book in his mind. When his gaze landed on the book, he pulled the book out of its place, making the books on either side fall in slightly against each other and he settled down back in his chair with in his hands. He began reading the book for what must have been the sixth time. Every word stood out on the thin and frail paper held between his thumb and index finger, he knew every part of the book like the back of his hand and never grew tired of reading the same words in the same order over and over again. Eyes that were trained to find detail in the smallest of specs followed the words and the surroundings fell away from his peripheral vision to nothing but a blur.