Searching For Junk

“I’m looking for a treasure.”

“We have many treasures. Which do you seek?”

Your untrained eyes see nothing but corrosion; your nostrils fill with the must of generations.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was sent.”

By your wife, you were sent. By the woman you love, who almost loves you equally in return but requires the supplement of a fetish for improbable trinkets. Quite nearly, but not quite, a balanced relationship. You work at it. And, today, get sent.

You are a zipper in a shoebox of decommissioned buttons.

“I see you’ve found the buttons. This one’s from a Civil War…”

“No buttons.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No buttons. She has… buttons.”

More apologies. It’s an antique shop, not Gettysburg. Don’t bother to fight.



“We have china. These plates would look beautiful in your home. Would your wife…”


The clerk shuffles away. Head down, not speaking.

“Sock darners.” She stops and turns.

“Those, we have. Check the case on the far wall.”

So much crap.

“My search is over.”

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