There is a store at the end of the world.
The floor is smooth, and it has several shelves. Empty, they are, though they used to carry many things. Clothes — cheaply made, decorated with rhinestones or embroidery. Silly words and collections of images that were touched, lovingly, gently, harshly. Gazed upon. Plastic bags and plastic bottles, all different colors, sugar and salt clinging to the inside. All of it has ended up in a pile somewhere. Many different piles somewhere. Piles across the sea, piles in the sea, piles that have and will become mountains. No one will climb them.
The door has a bell on it. Sometimes the wind pushes and it swings and the bell makes a thin and ghastly little ringing sound. It echoes and bounces around or maybe it doesn’t. There is no one to hear it. Still, it struggles along, as if waiting for something . . . holding onto its life so that it might proudly sing when a rough hand shoves that thin door open again. When. When. When.
If might be a kinder word. If would still be a lie.
The cash register is open. It is an old model and it would jam sometimes when people were trying to check out. It was roughly handled then, though some of its handlers knew that there was a gear on its underbelly that just needed to be pushed up, back into place . . . others hit it, shoved it, reddening and bruising the bases of their hands. The customers would watch, wide-eyed, as the cashier would collect himself, brush palm over eyes, wipe sweat from brow, and return shaky hands to the counter. The machine would, like a drowsy, beaten child, display the total, allow its belly to be opened, permit rough fingers inside. Change would be exchanged — hands would touch then, and then the moment would be over, belly shoved shut, eyes flicking back to the window to watch the twilight.
Three times it was handled before the end of the world.
It was late at night. The owner at the time sat on the counter, as she liked to do, and pulled it into her lap, slipping drawer out against her stomach, letting its harsh metal edges cut into her skin. Counted out all of the money, stripped it dry. She had never done this before . . . always, there was something left . . . she took all of it, and laid it on the counter beside her thigh, feeling the slightly sticky sensation from handled bills and sweaty coins congeal on her palms. She stared at it, and then at the empty, sighing, gutted beast. Halved the money, and put it back in, organizing it carefully. Her fingers slipped under, adjusted the gear, and smoothly slid the drawer back inside.
She locked the door and she left, into the night, only her eyes exposed. Hands rubbing back and forth against the fabric of her pants.
The second time was a robbery.
Who was there? I don’t know. Someone must have been. Doesn’t matter. Point is that They came in, fast, big hands dancing over guns and knives. One in the back was quiet, leering, with an ammunition belt wrapped around his shoulder and hip. One gloved hand fingered a bullet. The other reached out and took a dusty bottle from the shelf.
Oh, I remember. People had moved in. They were dealt with very quickly, and there were yells, and there was Language, so much language. Frenzied speech, different mouths and different tongues, a child whining and clutching at something and then crying out. The leering man walks to the front and touches the eject button on the register; it doesn’t pop. He stares at it for a second, reaches up, brushes an errant drop of blood off of his cheekbone, and then rams the butt of the gun into it. It springs. Someone yells; he rolls his eyes and grabs a fistful and leaves.
The last to handle are two people.
One of them walks in first. The shorter one. Their head is wrapped in bloodstained silk and their fingers are chapped and dry and nails split and brittle. They hear the singing bell, and turn back to look at it; the other stares at them, ducking into the building.
It is sunset. Not quite twilight.
They are having a conversation they have been having.
“When I was very young,” the first one says, walking forward to the counter. The other one ambles about, coming to a stop at the bodies, and tilts his head. Looks up at the ceiling and then down. “They told us, you see, about the sun; they said one day, one day some day, it was going to die. Stars die. They knew. And it was going to explode, and it would wash over all of us, and we would die.”
He looks over at them. They are leaning over the counter, their back to him. In one motion they hoist themself up and over, steadying the register, staring into its emptiness.
They wipe at a bit of blood.
“I was so scared.” They look at him. “I was terrified.”
If he were closer, he would lean down and press the tip of his nose to their nose.
“How vain I was . . .” A beat. “How I wish I could be, now.”
The floor is smooth, and it has several shelves. Empty, they are, though they used to carry many things. Clothes — cheaply made, decorated with rhinestones or embroidery. Silly words and collections of images that were touched, lovingly, gently, harshly. Gazed upon. Plastic bags and plastic bottles, all different colors, sugar and salt clinging to the inside. All of it has ended up in a pile somewhere. Many different piles somewhere. Piles across the sea, piles in the sea, piles that have and will become mountains. No one will climb them.
The door has a bell on it. Sometimes the wind pushes and it swings and the bell makes a thin and ghastly little ringing sound. It echoes and bounces around or maybe it doesn’t. There is no one to hear it. Still, it struggles along, as if waiting for something . . . holding onto its life so that it might proudly sing when a rough hand shoves that thin door open again. When. When. When.
If might be a kinder word. If would still be a lie.
The cash register is open. It is an old model and it would jam sometimes when people were trying to check out. It was roughly handled then, though some of its handlers knew that there was a gear on its underbelly that just needed to be pushed up, back into place . . . others hit it, shoved it, reddening and bruising the bases of their hands. The customers would watch, wide-eyed, as the cashier would collect himself, brush palm over eyes, wipe sweat from brow, and return shaky hands to the counter. The machine would, like a drowsy, beaten child, display the total, allow its belly to be opened, permit rough fingers inside. Change would be exchanged — hands would touch then, and then the moment would be over, belly shoved shut, eyes flicking back to the window to watch the twilight.
Three times it was handled before the end of the world.
It was late at night. The owner at the time sat on the counter, as she liked to do, and pulled it into her lap, slipping drawer out against her stomach, letting its harsh metal edges cut into her skin. Counted out all of the money, stripped it dry. She had never done this before . . . always, there was something left . . . she took all of it, and laid it on the counter beside her thigh, feeling the slightly sticky sensation from handled bills and sweaty coins congeal on her palms. She stared at it, and then at the empty, sighing, gutted beast. Halved the money, and put it back in, organizing it carefully. Her fingers slipped under, adjusted the gear, and smoothly slid the drawer back inside.
She locked the door and she left, into the night, only her eyes exposed. Hands rubbing back and forth against the fabric of her pants.
The second time was a robbery.
Who was there? I don’t know. Someone must have been. Doesn’t matter. Point is that They came in, fast, big hands dancing over guns and knives. One in the back was quiet, leering, with an ammunition belt wrapped around his shoulder and hip. One gloved hand fingered a bullet. The other reached out and took a dusty bottle from the shelf.
Oh, I remember. People had moved in. They were dealt with very quickly, and there were yells, and there was Language, so much language. Frenzied speech, different mouths and different tongues, a child whining and clutching at something and then crying out. The leering man walks to the front and touches the eject button on the register; it doesn’t pop. He stares at it for a second, reaches up, brushes an errant drop of blood off of his cheekbone, and then rams the butt of the gun into it. It springs. Someone yells; he rolls his eyes and grabs a fistful and leaves.
The last to handle are two people.
One of them walks in first. The shorter one. Their head is wrapped in bloodstained silk and their fingers are chapped and dry and nails split and brittle. They hear the singing bell, and turn back to look at it; the other stares at them, ducking into the building.
It is sunset. Not quite twilight.
They are having a conversation they have been having.
“When I was very young,” the first one says, walking forward to the counter. The other one ambles about, coming to a stop at the bodies, and tilts his head. Looks up at the ceiling and then down. “They told us, you see, about the sun; they said one day, one day some day, it was going to die. Stars die. They knew. And it was going to explode, and it would wash over all of us, and we would die.”
He looks over at them. They are leaning over the counter, their back to him. In one motion they hoist themself up and over, steadying the register, staring into its emptiness.
They wipe at a bit of blood.
“I was so scared.” They look at him. “I was terrified.”
If he were closer, he would lean down and press the tip of his nose to their nose.
“How vain I was . . .” A beat. “How I wish I could be, now.”