Copyright 2007 Clevernick
Clevernick237@yahoo.co.uk
Every morning on my way to work, I pass by an antique store
without a name. It seems to sell things that aren't strictly antiques, either –
stuff you might find in your parents' basement, or at a garage sale in a
run-down suburb. I call it the junkshop.
I'm in love with the junkshop girl. She's not the owner, so strictly speaking
she's not the junkshop girl, either. Sometimes I'll go by and I'll see the
owner there, a squat older woman from some Southeast Asian country, and I'll
pass by, avoiding her forbidding scowl.
But other times I'll be about to pass by the window of the junkshop and I'll
just know my girl is there. Maybe I've subconsciously glimpsed her in one of
the tarnished tablespoons in the window, or maybe her dusty-spicy fragrance
lingers on the doorstep I haven't even crossed yet. I don't know how I know,
but I'm always right.
When this happens, my face
brightens and my step lightens, and I turn into the shop as if I’m planning to
buy something, as if I have nothing better to do than a little junk shopping
this fine morning. I stride into the place
as if I routinely take old broken floorlamps or
anonymous Korean-brand remote controls home with me, as if these things are
important to me. The store is always
empty save for the junkshop girl, and jaunty old me.
The junkshop girl used to ignore me, as I'm sure she ignored all the tire-kicking
customers. She probably doesn't have many repeat customers though, or even
repeat fake customers, and lately she has smiled shyly at me when I enter. She
does not speak, and I don't really know if we even speak any languages in
common. Her long light brown hair is always pulled back into a loose ponytail,
her generous mouth pursed shut.
Like the shop, my girl is assembled from random parts. She got her long, bumped
nose from a Russian Jewess, her vaguely Asian eyes from a waiter in a Thai
restaurant, her narrow stooped shoulders from an old Polish tailor who works
late into the night. Her teeth, the few times I've seen them, seem to have
escaped from a British sitcom. But somehow, when she smiles, her face is more
than the sum of those parts, and she is beautiful.
She is thirtyish, but her complexion is that of a child, fine-pored and creamy.
She has no visible cheekbones, but her jawline is
clear and hard, and will not dull with age. Her cheeks curve in just the right
way with her smile. Her waist is thin and supple, and her derriere is exactly
as you might hope. Someday I hope to see it.
My fantasy goes a little further each time I enter her shop. As I pretend to
inspect the shop's mysteriously useless wares—-a single bowling shoe, a pewter
mug with glass bottom engraved with the name and coat of arms of “The Loyal
Order of Werewolves”, a dusty leather...—-my eyes turn
upwards and my fantasy rewinds to the beginning and proceeds.
I see myself glancing down from the burnished teapot on the shelf as I notice
her reflection in the bottom half. She is behind me, bending over to reach
something on the other shelf. I turn round and firmly grasp her folded hips,
and she becomes perfectly still. Without speaking, I massage her buttocks
powerfully with my large hands; she remains bent over, slides her woollen tube dress up past her hips so I can continue
unimpeded. She wears nothing beneath it. I massage her rump again, sinking my
thumbs into the sensitive part between the muscles, and she jumps but doesn't straighten,
doesn't speak.
I slide my hands up her sides, gently once, then a second time strongly, taking
the dress up with them, running my fingers over her soft breasts and hard
nipples as I do. She trembles and grasps her ankles firmly.
I remember that beside the teapot I was inspecting was a perfectly serviceable
old riding crop.
