We asked at the stationery window why a row of leads stood in bibs no wider than a postage stamp. The shopkeeper wiped a curl of cedar from the counter and said they were not costumes. "They keep the page tidy. You have to greet the sharpener. It is shy if you skip the bow."
A note on the tin reads: aprons on, then the point. Shavings go in the little pocket, never on the margin. "The eraser takes a rest between sentences," the keeper added. "We do not rush anyone who has just been polite."
By evening a boy returned with a notebook whose borders were still blank enough for a cloud. He left a thank-you in the complaints book: the lead had nodded, the sharpener had nodded back, and the pocket held a tiny gold curl like a receipt.