I found you, hidden behind the pile of yellowing novels.

The rain jumped off the blue plastic sheets that we were trying to crowd under. My hair was plastered to my face and my arms were dappled with raindrops that sparkled a little. I made attempts to keep the thick volume in my hand from getting wet, while trying to look for you.

You were there, somewhere in the cluster of street bookstores, peeling out books from the middle of piles that swayed in a precarious manner. You stood and held the book and skimmed through it and I watched your face twist into a small smile.

The place smelled of paper; delicious and demanding. The booksellers held out books, old ones with someone else's memories strewn across the pages, playing on our weaknesses. You haggled with them, in a tone that was firm but devoid of condescension. We bought them, while the shopkeeper grumbled under his breath and puddles formed behind us.

We walked away under the blue umbrella, with an armful of books that didn't fit in bags, while the rain lashed out at everything in sight.