Beginning of a short story

I jolted forward with unabashed hurry. On the front it's better if no one thinks you're confused. Through the slots adorned with bloated numbers and discounted Christmas book collections, I wove a disjointed and prudently disorienting tread. Fitted in my most inconspicuous clothing, I was determined to not be noticed or followed. It's important. I knew they were watching.

The aisles became a mounting hazy recapitulation of monophonic signs, arrows, and colored binds, with every choreographed careen. Dully, I thought about the time this must have taken. What force had orchestrated this dizzying dialectic of literature and kitschy illustrated calendars. The deliberateness of it all made me feel ill.
Feeling short of breath, my attention focused on a unseemly caricature of a woman, rooted Indian style in my otherwise empty row. Fiction/Literature(B). With confident diligence she thumbed each selection with her left hand. Her right hand she alternated between gently pushing her blonde bangs away from her eyes, and coyly resting near the precipice of her angular knee. Connecting with her target, the wide eyed terror chose a title: Ham on Rye.

“Oh!” She gasped with unadulterated glee.

I quickly averted my attention to the shelves. I tried not to catch her eye as she clasped at each page with hurried and clumsy exuberance. Her phone rang. It was an obnoxious cellular re imagining of Lennon's Imagine. She let it ring for a while, zealously taking in the sound of her ring tone. Or she was making sure that I was listening.
“Yeah, I'm at the bookstore” Her shrill pips rang out. She was proud.
“Oh my god, I'm totally reading this book by some guy this boy I met at a record store really loves. His name is Boukowski. I think he's really old, like from the sixties or something.”

As the creature continued her conversation, I became aware of the noise she was making. I had to get away. Needing to maintain caution, I concluded that slowly backing away and ever eyeballing the titles in Fiction/Literature(B) may help me to leave without interaction.

As I retreated I felt a soft collision of another person standing behind me. I was immediately blinded by the glint from the white teeth of the bookstore helper. His hungry contortion of a mouth bore every tooth and reflected in his name tag. He caught me looking

“I know I know!” He knowingly chided

In my horror I had the nerve to ask.

“What?”

“Well you don't have to be so rude”
His name was Dick.

Dick was round. He wore his baggy cargo jeans at the center of his belly. The taut pressure from his belt formed a flesh valley that orbited his person. Dick had a greasy shirt, but his Barnes and Noble name tag flashed brilliantly against the hunter green background. Dick was dangerous.
“Can I help you find anything?”

I violently pressed against my keys, and counted to ten as my throbbing arm responded to the fleeting pressure warming my hands. Searching for the right words to say, I attempted a smile at Dick. Dick raised an understanding eyebrow and calmly placed both hands on the fat of his rump. He then slightly bent his lower back and loudly groaned as two pops echoed from his center.

“Don't read much?”
“What?”
“New reader? I get them here a lot. They look and look and never quite find what they're looking for. Do you know what you're looking for?”
“I...”
“Excuse me!”

The creature with the Bukowski found us.