the kind that has a neon-lit sex shop in the basement, but upstairs is legit.
I was shopping for a birthday present for missus, Samuel Pepys’s diary. The place felt dingy enough to have exactly the kind of dogeared, faux leather-bound volume I wanted on the shelf somewhere, but I couldn’t see it anywhere.
When I asked the shopkeeper if they had a copy in stock, he looked at me over his glasses disapprovingly and told me that that was not the kind of book they have in stock here, thank you very much.
I thought that was pretty cute, coming from a purveyor of smut. I believe the diary has its seamy/steamy bits, but evidently not enough to qualify for this guy’s shop.