Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Hey, it’s not picture-perfect all the time—I said I was a good storyteller, not a fabricator of fairy tales.
Why did I do it? It all came down to the same thing, really: to create a life that existed beyond this moment, because if it existed for them, it could exist for me, too, right?
The bell above the door to the shop jingled, and I shoved the stack of photos in my hand into the waiting envelope as nonchalantly as I could. It was all well and good to daydream about customers’ lives; it was another thing entirely to get caught doing it. Aside from looking like a nosy snoop, I was fairly certain there were laws against this sort of thing—or at least company policies that discouraged peeping-tom employees.
Fortunately, the customer who had just walked in and caught me unaware was Mrs. Jenkins, and while the woman had a heart of gold, she had the eyesight of a potato. I’d developed her film a half hour ago, and it was obvious she had taken the pictures herself since half the prints were of the inside of the lens cap.
It was rather strange for the woman to be out so late, but the reason became clear a moment later when her son walked in with a half-crazed gleam in his eyes. His hands were full of bags from every store on the strip—they’d been Christmas shopping. She couldn’t get around on her own, and her son stepped up to help her out as often as he could. There were limits to just how many tea cozies, handmade quilts and lace doilies a person could peruse before they went a little screwy. And it looked like Mr. Jenkins Jr. had passed that mark about an hour ago.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jenkins, Mr. Jenkins. Enjoying the weather?”—the usual small talk through which two or more people completely ignored what they would really like to say in favor of the same pleasant, but meaningless banter ad nauseam. I was very good at small talk. I’d spent most of my life engaged in nothing but small talk. My father wasn’t the meaningful conversation-type.
“It’s lovely, dear,” she replied while her son nodded and ran his fingers through the sparse hair on the top of his head, making it stick straight up. I didn’t think he cared. Since he looked about two minutes away from ripping it out from the roots, what difference did it make if it stood on end?
Something else registered in his eyes a moment later though, as his gaze darted back and forth between the envelope of photos in my hand and my chest. I turned away and took as much time as I could retrieving and opening a bag for Mrs. Jenkins photos. I didn’t want him to look at me that way. I didn’t want any of them to look at me that way.
I slipped the envelope into the bag and turned around to hand it to Mrs. Jenkins while I kept my eyes carefully averted from her son. A few more mundane pleasantries and the pair bustled out the door, hoping to squeeze in a little more shopping before the stores closed up for the night. I checked the clock—five more minutes and I was done for the day, too. And since it was unlikely anyone would come dashing in at the last minute, I shut down the developer machine and started to close out the cash register.
Six minutes later, I closed and locked the door behind me. The busy street was still filled with people making away with their last-minute purchases. I watched them for a moment. What had they been shopping for? Christmas presents for parents and children, nieces and nephews? Who were they in a hurry to get home to?
A young woman darted across the street to her car, bags flapping at her side. I imagined she’d just found the perfect present for her impossible mother-in-law. She was hurrying home to show off her find to her husband, and he’d pretend to be vexed that she’d found the better present. Really though, he was happy that his wife put so much effort into the woman who could be more than difficult to get along with sometimes.
OK, that was a little fairy-tale-ish, but it was Christmastime. I was allowed to be a bit fanciful. Reality could kiss my ass.
The woman dropped her bags in her trunk and slipped into the car, and as if that was my cue, I turned away and started down the street in the opposite direction. I stayed on the main street for a block and a half, but then veered off through the parking lot of the Cash n’ Carry—it took four minutes off the walk home. During the warm, summer months I didn’t mind the extra time to get home, but it was winter now, and the wind had picked up. It billowed up my calf-length skirt and snuck up the sleeves of my long, puffy coat. I could even feel it testing the edges of my knitted hat as it tried to find a way in. I pulled my hat down further, so low that my eyelashes brushed against the brim when I blinked.