The old woman behind the counter of stopped
watches and tin trinkets is full of smiles when he comes in the door. Her granddaughter ignores him. She wants to know when they can go home. Not till they’ve taken a little bit more
money, dear, is when. The charity shop
smells of steam and age. He squeezes
past the clothes rails and toward the coffee table, its surface kept clear. Twenty five pounds a taped note says, no
negotiating. Its wooden legs are
battered and someone has scribbled all over the underside in blue pen. The top is dated red and brown swirls edged
in still shining chrome.
The woman is thrilled when he says he’ll take
it and tells him it should clean up well.
Her granddaughter bounces up and down asking if they can home now. Not yet they can’t. He carries it outside rests it against a
black bin warped by fire. Taking out his
phone he wonders who he can ring for a lift.
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