It was a quiet day in Belleville, New Jersey, quite like most days in the little town. But quiet days in Belleville meant especially quiet days for the Helvetica Bookstore and its owner, the tall dark and handsome art school graduate, Tyler Peters. Helvetica sold mountains upon mountains of fine literature, every book filed neatly into harshly categorised, then chronologised, then alphabetised, shelves. It was a small shop, very narrow but rather long, perhaps only ten by forty feet at most. There was a little desk to the right hand side of the door, the desk where charming little Tyler sat almost all day, a little neat pile of books on the side and a reading lamp next to that, the young man's new favourite book sitting under scrutiny of his glimmering hazel eyes until a customer would walk in. The store had a very low ceiling, barely even seven and a half foot, but the walls were stacked to the very top with books. Shelves upon shelves of only the deepest, most intense, sometimes light-hearted, century-old novels and novellas, waiting to be plucked from their frequently-dusted maple cavities by those long, pale, skillful fingers. Some of the books had not once been taken from their shelves since being placed there, and this saddened the bookstore owner very much. All this art, beautiful worlds created by beautiful minds, hidden away until they crumbled to dust, wasted. This was the very reason that little Tyler hated quiet days. There was never a busy day; even on days where he had the most customers he would often find himself at his desk in his plush oak-and-crumpled-leather chair reading the flavour of the day for hours at a time before an interested passer-by would step inside and inquire about a novel they read back at college, or with a story in their head they were sure to have heard before. Tyler spent much time during the day, in the shop, and at night, on the upper story tucked away in his tiny living quarters, reading all the books in his store, so that one day, if a man suddenly came bursting in with that one old fable he'd heard back as a malenky malchick fresh in his mind, Tyler could hand him the book with no trouble or thought involved. He loved the bookshop, Tyler really did. He was surrounded by minds as great and greater than his own, a very ominous feeling to him. An art student, he was, but there was always that hunger for knowledge, that passion and love affair with the almighty Austen and Dickens and Bronte. Dali, Monet and Da Vinci could always wait, Tyler knew. Today, on a bitterly cold morning of deepest December, the young bookworm found himself immersed in one of his favourite books, The Picture of Dorian Gray, a famous piece by none other than the hopelessly romantic but deeply poetic Oscar Wilde. He had read it countless times, of course, having once written a 10,000 word book report on it back in senior year without even being asked to, just for acceptance from his snobby blad English teacher who had been convinced that teenagers had no care for literature or anything of the sort. Tyler had proved him wrong with that. But today was not a day for book reports. Tyler sat relaxed as ever at his desk, legs folded, eyes hooded lazily as he read. He was startled from the dreamy, wispy world of art and beauty and perfection all merged to dark, when the charming little bell above the shop door tinkled loudly, signalling that there was indeed a customer entering. Tyler looked up slowly, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose before he took them off. In front of his desk stood a teenage boy, probably starting his senior year at Belleville High, he guessed. He was scruffy, short, nose and lip pierced with dark partly-shaved hair hanging over his eyes. Hazel eyes. It was an odd, almost intriguing sight to see them both, as Tyler stood up. This little punk rock kid, in his torn jeans and spent chucks and grubby Black Flag hoodie, standing opposite this bookstore owner with a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts, dressed in black/white pinstripe pants with a matching waistcoat over a pristine white shirt, black/white striped tie to match, jet black hair neatly slicked back with little wisps just at the end. It was needless to say the teenager felt somewhat intimidated by Tyler. Perhaps it was his air of intelligence mixed with that little sarcastic smirk and a hint of sass, brought to #life by his overall equivalence of beauty. 'Uh. Hi,' the little punk kid said, and Tyler smiled at him with a soft breath. 'Can I help you?' He asked, almost chuckling at how lost and overwhelmed this boy seemed by what Tyler had come to love - the warmth and homliness of the shop, mixed with the hardcore class and intelligence it practically reeked of. 'Yeah, uh...' The teen rubbed at the back of his neck, seemingly trying to think of what it was he had entered the shop for. 'I need a book.'
