Scuffed Oak Spirit

Necklines foam with yellowed fabric, acrid antiquations growing lace patinas. Shelves slant and overflow, racks packed tight with fringe and French perfume—expired, broken beading on a flapper’s midnight wear, rose relics tracing floral china. A fractured sun streak illuminates dust in crystalline suspension. It falls over furred riches and casts a woman in shadow at the register. Her hair rustles, whorled face reflected in glass casetop like smooth water displays the shore. She bears the scars of lovers’ carved hearts on tough skin, finding distinction in bruises. A corner-clock counts static moments. Feet rooted in the floor, she stands solid against time, surrounded by brass flourishes and boxed dreams. Her eyes wander over once-new treasures, now familiar collections of tarnished plates, pockmarks and timemarks, as stale as the stagnant air that hangs, unrippled by customers. The city-rush outside ends at her store’s entrance.