22. Luke
Luke
Isaw Blake walking across the street with her ear buds looking around like she just stepped into her own perfect little haven, happiness filling her expression. I couldn’t help myself; I followed her into the thrift store and admired her as I pursued the shelves.
Blake walked through the doors, and it was like watching the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. The tension she carries melted away as she took in the space, focusing on the well, worn books stacked in uneven piles adorning the shelves.
I walked up behind her, needing to be close to her, in her space, and reached around her for any book that would grab her attention.
“Excuse you,” she scolded.
“You really get lost in the pages, don’t you, B?”
She spins around and looks at me, the sarcastic tone in her voice replaced by one more gentle, almost affectionate, as if she couldn’t help but let her guard down.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Just killing time before I head home. I got called in early this morning, and if I go home right now, my sleep schedule will be all messed up,” I explain.
“Do you want to join me?” Her tone is light and friendly, but her eyes give her away, she’s hoping I’ll say yes. Little does she know, there is no other answer.
“What are we looking for?”
“Whatever obscure treasure catches our attention.”
“Junk shopping,” I confirm.
“None of this is junk. It just needs the right home so it can flourish,” she corrects.
“Really? Are you sure about that?” I ask as I hold up a half broken VHS tape of a 1980s workout routine, complete with a sun-faded cover and a lingering smell of mildew. “No, you’re right, B, this is truly a treasure.”
“Leave it to your sarcastic ass to literally pick up the one item in this store that is broken and seemingly useless.”
I just laugh.
“Why are you here if you hate thrifting?”
“I don’t hate thrifting, I just like giving you shit. You get all red and embarrassed.”
“Let’s see what else they have,” she suggests, not acknowledging my teasing as she walks towards a cluster of shelves.
We walk around the store, each picking up random items to inspect them.
“Oh, look.” She smiles holding up a case of old mason jars. “I can use these for literally so many things.”
“So many things? They hold liquid.” Confusion crosses my face. “How many things can you do with a mason jar?”
“You are such a man. You can use them as cups, DIY candle holders, I could put makeup brushes in them, use them as vases, or in my pantry to store things-so many things, Luke.”
“Doesn’t all the food in your pantry come in a container or bag to store them in?” Her response didn’t clear my confusion, but instead caused more.
“Luke,” she laughs, “You are such a man!”
“Obviously. I’m not sure why you keep saying that.”
“Women like things like the pantry to be inviting, and aesthetically pleasing,” she tries to explain.
“Inviting? Who are you inviting into your pantry, B? And, why would it need to be aesthetically pleasing? All you do is open the door, grab a snack, and close it. Never in my life have I opened a pantry door and thought: this pudding cup sure would taste better if it was more appealing to the eye in here,” I tease.
“Luke,” she laughs again, and it’s a sound I could listen to all day.
“I know, I’m such a man.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into a playful side hug. “What else can we get to make your aesthetics pleasing?”
“These frames are beautiful,” she says when we turn down the next aisle.
“They are missing the glass,” I point out.
“I can replace the cardboard back with wood and turn them into decorative trays to put on my ottoman.”
I give her a sideways glance, judgement clear across my face.
“What now?” She rolls her eyes.
“You’re going to buy frames and replace the cardboard backs with wood that you have to go to a hardware store to buy, find tools to use to cut it down to size so you can repurpose these frames into trays for your ottoman?” I question.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just buy these?” I ask as I raise two wood trays up for her to see.
“OH. MY. GOD. I am never going thrifting with you again.” She laughs as she sets the frames down and walks to the register, mason jars in hand.
I can’t help but grin, watching her fume and smile at the same time. “What, are you sure?” I tease. “I thought you were having fun.”
“Fun?” She spins around, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what you consider fun,”
I just shrug, unfazed. “You sure are laughing a lot for someone that claims this isn’t fun.”
She rolls her eyes, but the hint of laughter in her voice tells me there is nowhere else she’d rather be. “I swear, next time I’m leaving you in the car.”
I smirk, “Next time?”
With one last dramatic sigh, she grabs her bags and heads for the door. “I’m serious. Never again.”
“Sure,” I say with a wink. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t say a word.
I can’t wait for next time.