THE EMPORIUM
I had stretched my body into a dart, inhaled deeply, and passed through the aisles at top speed and then a man with a red-nailed woman and a girl came up to me, and the man said, “You don’t remember me! I’m Kevin! I was married to Cynthia. We’re not together any more.”
They had been the Crossticks!
What he wanted now, Kevin said, was peace, prosperity, and freedom.
And I more or less respected Cynthia Crosstick. I didn’t like her at first. She is not very nice. She’s odd, but that’s the whole point.
I didn’t like my fly brooch at first either. It’s fake. You can’t get it wet. It’s very rare and the colors are not nice and I get lots of enjoyment from that.
I picked up Glad Steaming Bags and Rocket Cheese.
“It’s very cold. Do you want some lemonade?—” said a child at a little stand, “we give twenty percent to charity.”
“No!” I said loudly, as I exited the emporium, although there might have been something to enjoy in swallowing that color.
“Why is she crying?” the child had asked an adult.
Why was I crying?
I had tried to hear the answer, but could not have heard the answer, without squatting—without my getting around down in front of the pair, bending at the knee, so that the proverbial snake no longer crawls on its belly.
I should have first stooped over.
The lemonade girl hadn’t mentioned the gumdrop cookies they had hoisted for sale.
Just the mention of cookies brings back memories of Spritz and Springerle and Cinnamon Stars—party favors—attractive, deliciously rich, beautiful colors, very well liked, extra special that I made a struggle to run from.