ROSELYN'S CRAFTY CORNER is an oasis today as usual.
Small trinkets and gifts are stacked neatly on display tables, pieces of paper set at prices that could rival a two-person dinner from one of those fancy steakhouses downtown with the tea lights and real rose centerpieces.
It's empty but filled with the fragrant mist of vanilla Febreze, a scent that Roselyn herself finds it necessary to spray every other hour despite how many times I've complained about my nostrils slowly disintegrating. She says it helps with online customer reviews—not like we get many of those in the first place.
Ever since sophomore year of high school, I've spent my weeks here, organizing random bits and bobs that middle-aged white women come hunting for like the second coming, pouring over gemstone necklaces and paperweights with tiny colorful flower petals pressed inside.
A card wall that spans an entire side of the building is the most interesting thing in existence to them, decorated jars that can fit absolutely nothing of substance are a miracle cast upon the earth, cutesy stationary sets with polka dots and ribbon (monogrammed, of course) are worth a deal with the devil.
Really, old people never cease to astound me.
"Good morning, Miss Cunningham."
And speaking of old people...
My gaze snaps up from the cash register I'd been messing with instantly, boss peering at me from behind her wide, grandma glasses with a smile.
"Was the new stock supposed to come in today or did I tell Sinclair that we were changing it to Monday?"
I look around the shop without need before leaning forward to speak, voice low. "Is new stock really necessary right now, Roselyn? There's no one in here."
She flicks my forearm with a disapproving tut. "Psh, I don't pay you to tell me how to run my business. Stick to your job description, Cleo."
My hands go up in mock defense at her words, lips quirking as I rattle off all I know. "Half of the delivery's supposed to come in this afternoon on the truck, and the other's supposed to come tomorrow morning." Then before she can butt in, "And, by the way, me and Sinclair already decided we're doing the lifting. It's time you stop picking up on heavy boxes."
The sixty-eight-year-old woman's arm extends, knit-sweater-covered, the sleeve ballooning around her frail wrist as she attempts, in vain, to flex. "Does this look like the arm of a lady who shouldn't be picking up on heavy boxes?"
I blink before deciding on a safe answer, "If I respond, I may lose my job."
She laughs loudly at that, hand coming down with the clink of a wedding band before taking a step back. "I'm going to run to the post office right quick while we're waiting. Hopefully Sinclair doesn't make it here before I get back."
The woman's foot is halfway out the door before I can even manage to start my response. "You and I both know that man is always late. Take your time!"
She turns to slant two fingers from her eyes to mine through the glass in an 'I'm watching you' motion, likely not even hearing what I'd said, before starting toward her blue minivan outside.
For an old lady she sure is a fast walker.
I sigh, once again back to the quietness of the shop, fiddling first with the rings on my fingers then a couple of piercings. When that gets boring, I decide to rearrange a display, snorting when my gaze lands on the three little pig measuring cup sets spread out over one of the side tables in front of check out.
Michael Bublé seems to be the only thing on the playlist today as usual, my screamo bangers having been permanently blacklisted within seconds the one day Roselyn granted me access to the store's aux.
Thus I'm listening to Haven't Met You Yet as I begin my mission, piling the pigs up around a shrine of monogrammed notebooks. In an impulsive show of bravery, I split open one of the sets (figuring it probably won't sell anyway) arranging the pigs from height order. Piggy number one stands up on top of the highest notebook stack, number two at the base of the mountain with number three. Then I tear a piece of paper from the receipt book in my pocket to fashion a tiny, little crown for the king pig.
It's all very glorious, and I have no idea why we don't have more customers.
Then—hallelujah—the chime.
My head pokes around the corner of a revolving display case at the sound, expecting to see the short, bald, white man that's Sinclair.
Instead, there's a very not short, not bald, not white man at the entrance of the shop, phone in hand, eyelids low enough that they might as well be closed.
A trench coat insulting to the humid air outside envelopes his form, dark green turtleneck and prissy checked slacks making my eyebrows raise even further.
I honestly can't say that I've ever seen a guy around my age anywhere near Crafty Corner, let alone inside of it. The strange urge to take a reference picture to make sure this isn't just a two pm work hallucination suddenly washes over me.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
Okay, nope, so not a hallucination. I don't think my mind would be able to conjure up such a convincingly dry voice.
I clear my throat, stepping into sight with a wide smile. "Welcome to Crafty Corner!"
The guy spins instantly, eyes scanning me from head to toe behind dark frames before his lips twitch decisively downward. "How inconvenient. Does this place not have staff?"
I blink. "I am the staff."
Eyes narrow infinitesimally, hand going to his pocket to deposit his cell as he rocks back on his heels. "Now, don't be ridiculous. I'm looking for an employee. You know, someone that works here."
I feel my own eyes narrow at the statement, palm pressing to my heart solemnly. "I am an employee." Then for good measure I add, "That works here."
He looks genuinely pissed now, for reasons unbeknownst to me. "This is a family business, for God's sake—children come here. I'm not clueless enough to think that someone like you would be hired." Then as if he'd said nothing at all, he moves forward to step past me, head craning down the aisles of vaguely set up junk.
For once I'm speechless.
Though, when the words do come, they come with the squeak of barely contained rage. "Like me?"
"Yeah." He gestures vaguely in my direction from some way off, still looking around as if he'd find a real employee behind a display table, watching everything unfold. "Emo, goth, whatever you'd call it."
"Huh?"
To some extent I understand what he's saying—or at least I try to, I really do. It isn't the first time I've been judged for my appearance, preferring to sport multiple piercings, two-toned hair, and as many chains as I can pile on without being mistaken for a walking weapon.
My style's a personal choice, and while I understand that it may not be everyone's cup of tea, there's no need for stupid opinions to trend past subjectivity into baseless assumptions about my character.
It's been implied that I must be unapproachable or a troublemaker on multiple occasions (which are both only true to an extent) just because I like wearing the color black and heavy makeup. Usually no one has enough guts to say anything outright without reason, though.
I suppose today is an exception.
"I'm not—"
The words die on my tongue as I realize the guy's missing, having trailed somewhere further into the store while I'd been stewing in an angry concoction of professionalism versus dignity.
My outfit isn't even that bad today if we're being honest—just some ripped jeans with fishnets, a baggy black t-shirt, and platform Docs. In fact, this is the tamest outfit I've worn all week. The man would go into cardiac arrest if he were to see me out of store dress code.
Huffing, I twist my way through the nearest aisle, searching for the prick. When I come across him, he's standing in front of the infamous card wall, brows slanted, arms crossed, bottom lip pulled to the side in either concentration or judgement, I can't be sure.
"Excuse me." My voice comes out less threatening and more like I haven't hit puberty yet. I cough and try again, this time achieving composed (but pissed off) employee. "Excuse me."
He still doesn't turn, fingers brushing the top of a card before he holds it up to his face, scanning the paper almost as if against his will.
"Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
That's all it takes for the cool facade to snap, head shooting up to the ceiling so fast that brown curls sling back from his forehead like a slinky. I can't help but notice his neck—the kind you only see in Renaissance paintings—long and perfectly sculpted, the dip of his Adam's apple beneath tanned, unblemished skin. In a second, his face turns toward mine, under eye bags seeming more pronounced than they were just a second ago.
"Will you continue to tail me for the entirety of my visit?"
My lips twist into a contorted smile. "I'm just trying to do my job, but if you'd prefer browsing on your own, I'd be happy to leave you to it."
The low chuckle of disbelief that leaves his lips is terrifying. "This again, I see. Your job."
God, the willpower it takes to hold back hell on my tongue.
"I do work here, you know. I even have a name tag. See?"
His gaze drifts over to the plate on my chest, long lashes fluttering mockingly like he believes he's just caught me in a lie before he reads, "Cleodora."
It sounds strange tumbling from his mouth, my name. A foreign word with infinite meanings. Though I don't have time to dwell on this before he says, "I'll thank god tonight that my parents don't hate me as much as yours seem to."
"It's Cleo," I bite back, enraged, through gritted teeth. These reactions were precisely the reason why I'd begged Roselyn for a new tag after she'd accidently printed the full. "Call me Cleo."
"Well Cleodora," he begins like an utter asshole, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you truly do work here. That being said, your employment only reflects poorly on the store operator. They should enforce a better dress code policy."
It isn't an apology in the slightest—not for the bullshit he'd spouted, not for his baseless claims, not for shooting me dirty looks since he'd walked into the store all arrogant and moody. But he isn't finished yet, "Since you're so anxious to help, though, I'll let you pick out a card for me."
As if he's doing me a favor.
I blink, mind whirring a mile a minute, trying to keep my negative comments to myself. "You mean you need help, like, finding a certain section of cards? They have labels on—"
"Oh no, no, no."
My gaze cuts forward at the sudden loud edge his voice had taken on before he leans slightly closer, bringing the faint scent of spearmint with him.
"I'm looking for a sympathy card—for someone I don't particularly like. I can't be bothered to do it myself."
I can already feel my eyes becoming slits. "Cards are supposed to be something personal. If you don't care for the person simply don't get them a card."
I really am starting to sound more like Roselyn everyday.
"Refusing to do what you're paid for, are you?" The guy's face is completely serious, save for the antagonistic glint in his eyes that seems to be deriving some sick sort of amusement. "Shall I report back to the store manager?"
I can't believe I'm dealing with a goddamn villain.
"No, I just think you should ultimately be the one to pick your own card. I can give options, though, of course."
His eyes roam over my body for the second time in the span of minutes, jaw ticking at the blonde underlayer of my hair (impulsive), the spiky wings of eyeliner down my waterline (also impulsive), the rips in my jeans (done by hand with a pair of scissors—and yes, you guessed it—impulsive).
I'd be his mirror image if the mirror was cracked and then super glued back together to show something that resembled really nothing similar to its previous reality at all.
And that pretty, expressionless face of his is still serving distaste on a silver platter.
"Isn't the customer always right?"
"If you're not going to write your own heartfelt message, the least you could do is use your own eyes when picking someone else's. Here." I lean down to snatch a couple sympathy cards from the wall, already knowing the ones I've chosen without having to look.
He stares down at the deck as if personally affronted. "I said I wanted you to pick."
"So you want the emo to pick your card?" Unprofessionalism bleeds into my tone.
He snatches them from my hands, face contorting into an expression that makes it slightly less attractive. "I don't appreciate the way you're speaking to me."
"Well, what a coincidence because I don't appreciate the way you're speaking to me."
Anger flashes in those hazel eyes, the beauty mark under his eye shifting as he squints. "What a shame. People in the customer service industry really ought to be able to take constructive criticism."
"Sorry, I must have missed the part where your criticism was constructive. Could you run it back by me?"
He looks down to furiously sort through the cards in his hands, barely glancing at them before shoving the stack into my face. "I don't like these. Find something better."
"Okay." The word is sugary sweet with knives beneath the folds of vowels. I take the cards back carefully, so carefully, setting them back in their rightful places. Then in a second I have just the piece I'm looking for. "I think this one's best suited to convey your sympathy."
He snatches it from my grip, falling beautifully silent as he takes in the grinning donkey on the front cover. Then slowly, so slowly, he looks up at me.
"What," A pause that lasts an eternity, "is this?"
Ever so meticulously, I reach over to pull back the cover of the holy grail of all sympathy cards, where—lo and behold—there waits the cursed, cartoon image of a donkey's butt, the icing on top of the cake of perfection being the words that hover right above it in a red semicircle.
Keeping your ass in my prayers.
The shop is so silent I can hear blood rushing through my ears. When I look back over at the guy, he's motionless—like he's died standing upright, eyes open, face blank.
I don't know how long he stays like that before saying, in a voice so quiet that I have to strain to hear it, "Do you think this is funny?"
And, yes. Yes, I obviously do because I'm about to lose it.
"What—?" My voice cracks on the word, and I feel my nostrils flare from trying to hold back a snort. "What do you think of the card?"
He's silent again, eye contact unfaltering from behind those glasses.
"You still with me?"
"I don't think you're being serious." His voice is a tire on gravel.
"Oh, but I am." I gently pry the paper from his hands, closing an eye and holding it out in front of my face like an investigator with a magnifying glass. "It's thoughtful, unique—probably unlike anything you've ever seen. Am I right?"
Silence.
"Look," my finger lands on the donkey's ass. "Kinda resembles you, doesn't it?"
His tongue is now cocked in his cheek, chin down so that he can try to obliterate my soul. He has a good head on my height, and I have to tilt up my own chin to blink innocently, teeth biting down on my bottom lip to hold myself together.
"Ready for checkout?"
Hazel becomes black. "You'll be sorry for this. Mark my words."
His tone creeps up my spine, folding its claws over my shoulders, pressing down hard enough to pierce. It's an adrenaline spike. Drawn sword. A challenge to a modern-day duel. Slowly, I can feel a smile start to tug at my lips despite myself.
"Bring it on then, asshole."
***
honestly half of the time i'm not even sure what i'm writing, but this was fun lmaooo
hope you're enjoying so far !