Dan pulled at the vape and savored the taste of the smoke, remembering the time he’d tried to quit, years ago, just after the heart attack that left him gasping on the sidewalk a few blocks away. In the reflection of the store window, he watched himself exhale. Quitting—bad idea. That’s the feeling he had about it these days. Sarah had stopped, though, and she’d smoked a pack a day just like he did. But then she’d had all those other issues to deal with and had no choice except to stop. Easier and harder—he saw it that way. She’d become frail. And angry about getting older. And angry when she couldn’t work. He inhaled again and, as he leaned toward the glass, felt the familiar grip of anguish.
What’s taking her so long anyway? He’d told Sarah to go inside while he had a smoke. After saying she’d be quick, she had disappeared into the gloom of the store. He shielded his eyes from the sun to peer into the showroom but couldn’t see past the stacks of porcelain dishes on assorted tables and chairs. He went inside.
Baskets, mirrors, paintings, sculptures, lamps—everything covered with dust. A smell of mold hanging in the air. Dan found Sarah standing next to a man wearing cut-offs. He was bald except for dreadlocks that dangled around the sides of his face. As Dan moved closer, the man grinned and reached for the vase Sarah was holding. He fumbled it, she jerked her hands toward him, and he laughed. “Just messin’ with you,” he said.
“I like the detail around the fluted top,” she said.
“It’s distinctive,” the man said as Sarah nodded. “All the things in my store are that way. Ever since I’ve owned it, I’ve picked every object with care. I’m a professional.”
“Of course,” Sarah said.
Dan wondered if Sarah was aware he stood nearby. He knew he had a way of wandering into her conversations. Sarah once said that when he did, she sensed Dan like heat from a stove. It was sometimes a comforting warmth, but it often grew into an oxygen-devouring wildfire. Maybe like now, Dan thought, fingering a tiny porcelain dog on a table. Or not—I don’t know. Like the meeting with her doctor, when she first received the diagnosis. She told him to sit in the waiting room. She wanted to be the first to hear the news, whatever it was, and then, she said, she’d tell him. All clear, or months of radiation and poison—whatever. She wanted to take it in before he did. But he couldn’t stay in his chair, newscasters chattering on the TV above his head. He got up and drifted toward the examining rooms, questioned a nurse behind a desk as though he was on the street looking for a restaurant, found Sarah and the doctor. The door was ajar and he slipped in. He heard the doctor recommend a treatment and assess the chances, which altogether were as good as discovering life in a distant galaxy, but there were few options and the doctor urged her to begin the regimen within days. Afterward, as Sarah and Dan rode the elevator down, just the two of them, Sarah said she was glad Dan had heard the details, terrible as they were. She was trembling and had trouble speaking. When he took her in his arms, she seemed to dissolve into his bulk. “Am I in shock?” she’d said. That was three years ago, more time had passed than they thought she’d have, more lines on her face had appeared and scars like thin zippers on her chest, and now she was hoping again for clients and projects and the money that affirmed her talent.
“…and salt and pepper shakers that match the vase,” Dan heard the owner say. “Same ceramic work.” On top of a cabinet sat the shakers and an open bottle of wine. The owner set the vase on the cabinet.
“I’m interested in the set,” Sarah said, touching the vase, then walked up the stairs at the back of the store. The owner bounded after her. Dan fingered his vape and examined the items on the cabinet. He tipped the bottle and sniffed the wine. It smelled sour— the bottle could have been sitting open for months, and maybe it was part of the display. Or maybe that was just the way it smelled when the owner pulled the cork earlier in the day. Wouldn’t be surprised. But good to see her engaged no matter. Dan felt like an appraiser preparing for an auction, though he really knew nothing about antiques. Sarah was the expert, the interior designer. But her treatments had made it difficult to keep her business going the way she’d wanted to and she lost the desire to keep pushing, until the results improved and her energy returned and, Dan remembered her saying two years after the news, she began to feel like the person she had been before learning that for everyone even the most certain things fade into the ubiquitous haze of anxiety.
“Come up and see this amazing furniture,” Sarah called out with an excitement that startled Dan. He hurried toward the stairs.
On the second floor, it looked as though a dinner party were about to begin. Four places at a table were set with glassware, plates, and utensils. “I love mid-century style,” Sarah said, waving her hand in the direction of the table. Dan admired the grace of her movement. The owner stood inches from Sarah. “I have clients who own a lake house in Canada. Would you ship there?” she asked. Dan couldn’t remember which clients she might be referring to. He suppressed the thought they didn’t exist.
“There’s too much paperwork,” the owner said, his grin turning to a grimace. “My customers handle it themselves.”
No one spoke for a moment. The light from a bare bulb over the table reflected off the polished surface. The second floor was quiet, like a library, and brighter than below.
“Those pieces we looked at downstairs are so unusual,” Sarah said, glancing over at Dan. Dan could tell by the way her eyes narrowed she wanted to make a purchase. When Dan was running his consulting business, years ago, that’s how his clients had looked just before they signed off on an engagement. Sarah turned toward the owner. “How much do you want for them?”
“I’m not selling them,” the owner said.
“I can’t buy them?” she asked.
“They’re not for sale.”
“Is there a number you’d agree to?” Dan said. Sarah looked at the owner and then Dan. Dan felt the heat emanating from his question. He recalled not having said a word when the doctor had told Sarah how sick she was. Dan still regretted not asking a question then.
“This is my store,” the owner said as he began to head downstairs. “All these objects are precious to me. I’m not selling anything.” His words trailed off as he reached the first floor. Sarah followed him. Dan remained by the table for a few seconds.
The owner stood at the entrance holding the door. As Sarah and Dan stepped outside, the owner said, “I don’t give up my things easily.” The door clicked shut behind them. At the corner, they stopped. “He’s a difficult person,” Sarah said. “I’d heard that before.”
“You knew that about him?” Dan said, smoke billowing from the side of his mouth.
Dan and Sarah leaned closer to each other as people moved around them to cross the street.
“Eventually, with enough time, I’ll convince him to part with those pieces,” Sarah said. “He’ll see I’m a professional, too.”
Dan took another pull on the vape, held the smoke, let it go. “Anyone can see that,” he said. And anyone can feel that, like I know you can feel my heat. Dan stood next to Sarah and took her hand, time passing, time circling, time stopping, there on the sidewalk steps away from the store.
