RENAISSANCE

1. Meeting

The dirty snow crunched under my boots, and night was already beginning to fall even though it was only 4:50 PM. The new winter night was slowly settling over the streets of Vinegar Hill, promising to be harsher than usual for the local drunks.

I walked with a weary shuffle, passing beggars dressed in filthy rags, their faces reddened by the cold, huddled together for warmth.

This time of year made this already unwelcoming neighborhood even more distressing and terrifying.

I finally arrived at the convenience store with its flickering neon sign and stepped over the creaking threshold.

"Hi," said my colleague Anne, not bothering to look up from her book, her black glasses lowered to the tip of her nose.

The fact that she could guess it was me without even looking up showed just how rare customers were here.

"Hi, was it busy today?" I asked disinterestedly, accustomed to exchanging these same banalities every day.

This 55-year-old woman was the only person I interacted with daily for the past two years. After a while, there wasn't much left to say between us.

At the same time, I put my handbag away in the storage room behind the counter but kept my coat on. The radiators weren't working, and I wondered if they had ever worked.

"Not really, just a couple of crackheads, I think," I heard her say. "Damn, those rats are really annoying. I already swept earlier."

As I walked out, I realized she was talking about the rodent droppings along the corners.

An exterminator had come by a few weeks ago, but it seemed the rats were more resilient than we thought. I figured Carlos couldn't afford another visit since he was currently drowning in financial problems with the store. We had to make do.

"By the way, you should be careful tonight. Apparently, a lot of armed people are hanging around lately," she said, folding her glasses to hang them from her neckline.

She got up from her chair to give me her spot and picked up her large black leather handbag, which lay beside her on the floor. The jingle of numerous whimsical keychains was the signature sound of her presence nearby.

"As usual," I said with a slight bitter laugh.

"I'm serious, Isabella."

Seeing her stern expression, my smile faded. I scrutinized her for more clues, but she was already busy fluffing her mass of gray curls in the reflection of her small portable mirror.

"Take care, honey," she finished, leaving the store briskly, leaving me perplexed.

I watched her walk away until she disappeared down an alley. Her last words lingered in my mind for a few minutes before I grew tired of the thought and began doodling on a piece of paper.

After a few hours, I had only processed one sale. Bored with drawing, I was reduced to watching the few passersby lingering in the cold night or paying attention to the altercations of drinkers. Working on New Year's Eve was a real drag.

To my great relief—or perhaps not—a man entered and headed to the alcohol section, returning seconds later with a pack of beer.

He examined me at length with a clumsy smile, but it didn't faze me, neither embarrassment nor discomfort. Habit had numbed me.

"Come with me tonight... I'll keep you co-company," the man slurred, his eyes red from questionable substances.

Unbothered by his comments, which were no different from those of some other customers, I scanned the pack and told him the amount he owed. Yet his glassy eyes remained fixed on me, indicating he was waiting for a response.