The Couch.(Short Story)

He'd come to the shop three days in a row, a small middle-aged man with vague grey eyes and thick wavy brown hair. Ordinary, wholesome even--like a loaf of bread. Each time he'd select the book, seat himself on the ancient velvet settee and read for half an hour. Then, giving her a wispy faraway smile, he'd leave.

The book was The Middle Ground, a novel by Margaret Drabble. A modern-day Dickens, some called her. Perhaps, but very much a woman's writer all the same.

By the third day her husband Igor got annoyed. "Is this a shop or a reading-room?" he queried, very loudly and to no one in particular. Later, he said to her, "That couch is going, and soon. Not one of your best ideas, Fran."

She nodded, not expecting to see the man again. And she didn't for two days, but after that he came back and read for an hour before Igor returned from his lunch break. On that occasion she noticed a small multi-coloured metal butterfly on his lapel. An intriguing object, not really a brooch but too fancy for a badge. Later that day she checked the book and found he'd marked the place with a Met ticket. Taking out a pen, she scribbled Igor's lunch-hour is between one and two. Friday is his day off.

The following Friday he appeared at nine-fifteen and read all morning. Before leaving he gave her an enigmatic smile. Afterwards she went over and checked the book again--one hundred pages to go. A little disconcerting. Still, we've got other Drabbles, she thought, placing a good one beside it.

Two hours later someone bought it. Glancing sideways, she saw her assistant, Colin, place it in a ...