Voices

c h a p t e r 8 : a g a i n

She reminds me of someone, but I can't quite put my finger on who.

You know exactly who she reminds you of.

You're just too afraid to admit it.

My hands are shaking ever so slightly as I take one trembling step after another to the jewellery shelf.

"Hi," I say as I reach, my eyes darting all around the room, not wanting to seem too interested.

I pick up the necklaces that are scattered all over the shelf and use my arm to hang them to prevent them from being too tangled. I place all the necklaces back to their original places in the right categories: the pearls with the pearls, the gems with the gems, the gold with the gold, and so on and so forth.

"They're very pretty," she replies, watching me work.

She's rubbing her hands nervously, constantly shifting her weight from one leg to another.

"Who's your friend?" I ask, nodding in his direction as I continue sorting out all the jewellery.

She shrugs. "I don't really know him. We just met this morning."

My shoulders relax at her answer. I never even realised they were tensed in the first place.

"Cool. Do you like him?" I blurt.

"I mean, is he nice?" I try to correct, slowly but surely starting to panic. "I mean-"

She laughs, as if what I had just said was all just a joke. "I know what you mean." She pauses. "He's nice, I guess. I don't really know him yet so it's still too early to say."

I nod, opening my mouth to say something but soon decided against it. I don't want to embarrass myself again. It's not like I have anything better to say.

Or do you?

"Do you like working here?" she asks, her voice trembling just a little.

"I do, actually," I reply, using all my willpower not to look her in the eyes. "All the items in this shop have a story behind them, and I find that very fascinating. They're all so old and some are chipped or even broken and yet, they're still standing, functioning, as gorgeous as ever."

You're blabbering again, Sam.

Stop it, Sam.

She's bored. She doesn't want to listen to your nonsense.

"I agree," she answers. "What's your favourite item in this shop?"

I freeze, my breath quickly becoming shallower and shallower. My favourite item in this shop? I know exactly what it is. But I'm not sure if I am ready to share that story.

And why is that?

Who's fault is that?

Tell. Her.

"I'll show you," I force myself to say.

I put down the bracelets I am carrying and lead her to the back of the shop with all the miscellaneous items. I bend down and look through the stacks and stacks of items in the bottom rows of the shelf. When I find it, I grab it and hold it securely in my hand and stand up. She holds out the palm of her right hand and I drop it into her hand.

"A key?" she asks, curiosity eminent in her voice, dissipating the nervousness I thought I heard.

Maybe I'm misinterpreted.

Or maybe you thought she was nervous simply because you are.

"Why do you like it?"

For some reason, I feel like telling this girl everything. I feel like sharing a piece of my soul with her. I can't even tell the story of my favourite item to my best friend and yet, I'm telling a complete stranger.