Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“Um, yeah. Okay,” she agrees.
“Okay,” I say casually.
“I’ll grab my stuff,” she says, rising. “And don’t think I’m not bringing my laundry.”
***
We stop at my place to drop my car and start a load of her laundry then walk to the flea market. It’s every bit as hellish as one would expect. The flea market, not the walk. The walk is great. The flea market is a giant outdoor garage sale. Filled with used junk. Other people’s used junk.
Or, from Chloe’s viewpoint: treasures.
Okay.
But Chloe loves it, and I love her so I’m willing to do what it takes to spend the day with her.
Old black-and-white pictures of other people’s relatives. Used hats. A vintage mail box, rotary phones. One guy is selling fresh fruit and vegetables, which makes no sense to me at all, but Chloe stops and buys a couple of apples.
A short while later she pauses in front of a box of old house numbers. It’s on the pavement in a cardboard box that looks ready to give out from the weight of the items inside of it, but that doesn’t deter Chloe from stooping down and digging through, pulling out a two and setting it on the brick sidewalk beside her before digging back in.
This makes less sense than the fresh green beans located next to the recycled tires turned into planters we passed ten tables ago, but I’m game.
“What are we looking for?” I ask, squatting down next to her. She pulls out a zero and places it next to the two. They’re completely mismatched. Different fonts, sizes, materials and age. But she seems happy with her search.
“A four,” she replies. The numbers in the box rattle as she rummages until they fall silent as she plucks out a four in victory. “There.” She places it on the pavers in front of the two and the zero.
“A four, a two and a zero,” I comment. “Are you moving?”
“No!” She laughs as she says it, her head turning in my direction, her hair falling in a curtain around her. “Like the four-twenty highway shirt I almost bought in Vail. I’m going to hang these on the wall over my bookcase. It’ll remind me of that day.”
Then she smiles. And fuck, that does things to me.
“Great idea. I’ll get a set too,” I tell her. “Help me find three more.”
So that’s how we end up with an entire box of used house numbers spread around on the ground while we inspect the available options of fours, twos and zeros until we both have the mismatched set we like best. And fine, I’m starting to see the appeal of other people’s used shit. Because this is fun. Chloe is fun.
Everything with Chloe is more fun. Donuts and shopping and traveling on the candy plane—it’s all better when she’s around. Errand-running and laundry and hours spent at a flea market. I’ll take it. Because I know that every day I spend with Chloe is the best day of my life.
We poke around the market for another couple of hours. I’m happy to find someone selling coffee. Chloe is happy to find enough old wooden toy blocks to spell out Christine. She insists my sister will love them for the baby’s vintage-chic nursery. I don’t have a fucking clue, but I nod and agree anyway. We walk back towards my place on Pine Street, which turns out to be antique row in Center City, Philadelphia. Two blocks of shops filled with a variety of kitsch, vintage and antique stores. Which by my way of thinking is a bunch of garage sales located inside of storefronts, but I’ll admit once we step inside a few they have some pretty cool stuff. I even manage to find a really cool original sketch of the hospital Sophie’s husband works at. I get it for him even though he’s an annoying fuck. He does love my sister.
When we make it back to my place Chloe runs upstairs to move her laundry into the dryer and I grab my tool box and follow her up.
That’s not a euphemism. I have an actual tool box. I want to hang the numbers we got today over my dresser so I’ll see them every morning when I wake up.
Jesus fuck.
Why don’t I just beg her to marry me and get it over with?
Once Chloe finishes with her laundry she watches me affix the numbers to my wall, helping me decide on the placement.
Then everything goes to shit.
“Do you want to order something in for dinner or go out?” I ask her.
She’s sitting on the end of my bed watching me pack up the toolbox. I snap the latches closed and glance at her.
“What are we doing, Boyd?” She waves her hands by her face, her fingers spread wide like little explosions. “I mean seriously. What are we doing?” She grabs a strand of her hair and starts twirling it around her finger, her movements rough and slightly panicky. Her legs are crossed and the foot touching the floor starts to bounce.