Insight | Flash Fiction
I told my wife to be careful. She has never understood, and how could she — she's blind.
I told my wife to be careful. She looked at me with a practiced sort of confusion. She has never understood, and how could she — she’s blind.
We entered the thrift shop. Just browsing. Killing time before our dinner reservation. A brass bell attached to the door noted our arrival. Ding! It greeted us gayly. Then more quietly — ding. It sounded like a whisper. I turned to look at it as it hung there limply, now barely swaying. It smiled. I smiled back.
The bell had once, long ago, belonged to a stage actress, Emily. No, Elmira. It had hung outside her dressing room at the Orpheum Theater, downtown. Someone would tap it whenever she was due on stage. Ding. The theater was torn down long ago. The bell had been donated and then resold. First to a 2nd grade teacher, Katherine I think. It hung in her classroom. It watched the children playing. Next it was in a machine shop, but I couldn’t tell where. Now it was here letting the store owner know that he had customers. He pushed his head out from behind a large lamp.
“Greetings.”
“Hey,” I replied.
“Look around. The cat’s friendly.”
I saw the cat lying lazily on the counter. Maine Coon (mostly), 12 years, widowed. She lifted her head briefly to take in the scene. She smiled. Friendly. I smiled back.
“Babe, don’t touch anything, a’right.”
Babe didn’t smile.
“Whatever,” she mumbled.
My wife didn’t understand. To her these were mere objects. Pretty things to touch and maybe buy. She couldn’t see them. I saw her reach for a rhinestone encrusted hairbrush. I touched her hand. She stopped.
“What?” She was annoyed.
The hairbrush had belonged to Genevieve Pickens of Alabama. I could see her standing before her bedroom mirror, naked, slowly drawing the brush through her long white hair. She was alone. Her breasts, flattened by gravity and time, clung tightly to her chest, now barely heaving. Bashful nipples peeked through the stands. Her eyes were old and gray, gentle tears rested at the edges. She caught my stare. I turned away.
“You know, this lamp once belonged to the King of Bohemia.”
It didn’t. It belonged to somebody named Hank who had bought it at a Sears-Roebucks department store in 1962 and put it out with the trash fifteen days ago. Faulty.
“There’s a short in the wire,” I said. “Try wiggling the cord.” I held up my thumb and forefinger pressed together, jiggling them.
The store owner looked up briefly. When he caught my eye, I could see that he too was blind. He turned back to his polishing.
The cat, without even bothering to lift her head, let out a quiet chuckle.