Like Dreams or Drainpipes: A Meeting Jo Castle
They had walked for two miles to get to one second-hand shop in a village on the eastern coastline. Neither took the same journey; one approached from the north and the other from the south, and this little shop was where their paths intersected. Like many second-hand shops do, this one had its own smell. There was the smell of mothballs- a predictable note. The bookshelves at the back contributed the sweet acid of yellowing pages. In the easternmost corner hung a tatty peignoir, which dominated its section with a perfume that simultaneously suggested a light powder and a punch in the nostrils; the items of clothing hanging on the rails besides it stagnated in sadder concoctions of parted owners. Our two met over the scratchy scent of cheap lavender, where some candles still wrapped in plastic were. The meeting was delayed. She, an angular thing with long tanned legs freckled with peeling plasters, dithered over the candles momentarily as if they were things of great importance. He, a being of softer persuasion in an expensive shirt and even dearer trousers, tucked some spilling pearl necklaces back into a hefty cardboard box he carried. For a minute there was an almighty impasse, strong enough to slow a speeding locomotive, until their eyes were persuaded to disengage and look at the other. “Excuse me,” he found himself improvising- “do I… know you?” “Probably,” she said. Her gaze was flat, dreamlike. “I get that a lot.” “Do you have a name?” he asked, and then checked himself. “What’s your name?” Her eyes flickered away from him for a moment and onto the ceiling. “Marlowe.” She remembered the birth certificate she found buried in the bottom of a suitcase and for a moment felt nothing but proud. “Mine’s Heath,” he offered.
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