The antique shop on Fourth Street was a jumbled window of broken toys, faded tears, and actual knick-knacks old enough to evoke nostalgia. No one ever went into it, though the Italian restaurant next door had a steady stream of garlic-loving customers that wandered past the glass with its faded gold markings, as did the sweet-seekers heading for the bakery to the left.
And yet — it remained a fixture, half-forgotten and overshadowed by red sauce and brightly frosted confections, and its sheer ability to survive without customers was what regularly perturbed Rita.
“I don’t get it,” she muttered, dodging an errant tray of breadsticks and pouring a refill. “How do they stay open?”
“So go visit,” yawned Staci. She snapped the gum she claimed would keep her from smoking and shuffled her tray of salads out the door.
Rita followed, a wine glass in each hand. “I know I talk about that place too much, but it’s not like either of us ever have energy after double shifts.”
Staci shrugged, balancing the tray’s movements with the ease of long practice. “If it bothers you so much, do something about it.”
And then I won’t have to hear about it anymore. The expression on the older woman’s face showed it more clearly than words would have.
Both pasted on identical bright smiles as they approached their adjoining tables. “Now, what can I get you?”
On double shift days, Rita treated herself to a cupcake, as long as the bakery was still open. They knew her well enough they’d let her in while the lights were on. It was a break from sweeping — and her cakes held only a hint of stale, just enough to give her a few cents off. Tonight, though, the lights clicked off just as she stepped into the alley.
“Blast.” She kicked a stray box that hadn’t made it into the dumpster and walked toward the street before she could smell any worse.
The darkened glass of the antique store gleamed in the streetlight. Within, she could barely see the glow of from the adjacent bulbs of a student lamp, and she realized she had made her way toward the door as if the dim illumination controlled her, mothlike.
Her hand moved of its own volition to rest upon the handle. With a surprisingly imperceptible squeal, the door opened into the darkness.
Fingers lightly drifting over dusty bric-a-brac, she worked her way toward the lights and met the glowing — glowing? surely, a trick of incandescence — eyes of a shadowed man.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d come in, Rita.”
Something sharp cut into her palm as her hand clenched in instinctive fear and revulsion. She stepped back. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“I knew your mother,” the man interjected. The shadow softened in what might have been a smile. “And I also appreciate Italian food.”
The item in her hand moved, and she held it in her palm to inspect the damage she’d done. “I’m afraid I’ve broken—”
The elephant in her palm raised his trunk high, reared, and trumpeted.
Her hand shook, and the elephant lowered his head with a gleam of tusks.
“Ah,” the shadowed man said. “He likes you, but he’s particular.”
***
This week, nother Mike prompted me with: The elephant raised its trunk high, reared, and trumpeted. My prompt went to AC Young: “You don’t want to face the consequences of getting in my way.”
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