She sat at a corner table near the window in our little hideaway: the coffee shop. I hurried to the table, hoping that she didn't notice that I was late -again- and quickly sat down on the forest-green cushioned seat. It created that annoying little puff sound, announcing my arrival to her.

"You're late, Sir there-was-something-important-I-swear!" She looked up from her book.

"But there was something importa--!" She hit me lightly on the head with the book she was reading, which was quite a thick book as well. She placed a finger on her lips to silence me.

"No exclaiming!" She gave me one of her playful smiles before carrying on with her book.

I looked around. It was a quaint, modest little shop, with the owner's own books lining its coffee-brown walls. The smell of fresh coffee and old books mixed with each other, creating this sense of warm tingling in my nose. (I swear I didn't sneeze.) The gentle strums of guitar from the guitarist that lived here filled the shop. The water droplets from the rain clung to the window, creating a little warped, bubbly vision of outside. The people who were around were huddled in their own little world of books and stories. Even the few children here had brought their own books and snuggled close to their parents to read. Everything was snug and warm, creating a little haven for us, saving us from the bland, cold weather outside.

"Why are you still sitting there without a book?" She asked, taking a sip of her coffee, "how dare you sit there, without a book in hand! Or do you not belong among the reading-people here?" She questioned me, with her hair on her upper lip, like a fake mustache, and a raised eyebrow. "Tell me, young boy, are our daily trips here boring you? You should be honoured!" She fake-exclaimed in her fake british accent, hitting me again with her book.

"Y-Yes, sir!" I hurriedly took a book from a random stash and held it open, digging my face into it.

"That's good," she nodded, still donning her hair-stache, "and you never told me you could read upside-down!" I looked up to her, not noticing that the book was upside-down!

"I-I've been trying to train myself, sir, to read in different ways!"

"Well, what an odd ability! Anyway, good that you're reading," she released her stache and continued reading, a little smile playing on her lips again.

"Since you can read upside-down, let the book remain that side up."

Damn. I honestly can't read upside-down, and was about to turn it the right-side up again.

I looked up at her again, poking the book she was reading. I let my finger hover over it, feeling the plastic-lettering and design on the cover. It always amuses me. She flicked my finger away, "don't touch my beloved Book Thief!" She swiped the book away from me and hid it under her shirt.

"Beneath her shirt, a book was eating her up." she, I assume, quoted from her book, before taking it out again. She donned her fake-stache again, "and you really shouldn't be randomly touching other people's books. It's weird, my boy." She took my hand and gently placed it on my book, "now read."

"Yes, sir..." I didn't read. Instead, I watched her. I watched her eyes gracing the pages of her book; it was an honour for anyone whom her eyes fell upon. I watched how she fingered each page, as though she could feel the books emotions just by touching it. I watched her huddle close to the window, her back to the dark, cold world outside. I watched her lips mouth the dialogue in her book, as is her habit when reading.

"I never knew just what it was about this old coffee shop I love so much. All of the while I never knew,"
sang the guitarist, who seemed to know exactly what was in my heart,
"All of the while, all of the while,"

She looked up. And looked at me.
All of the while, it was you