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176Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Tba7lhVrE
176Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4tJ8tmIH5L
He stared out the large, plate-glass window of his small shop while rubbing a bronze butt.
An artist in a distant country had made several renditions of a woman's pelvis and sold the bronze reproductions to anyone with six-hundred dollars and the need for a fourteen-inch ass in their home. The man didn't know this of course, but he did know what he liked, and he smiled as he felt every curve and crevice that the artist had been kind enough to carve for his delight.
On the window, painted in large, fancy letters, were the words: "William's Antiques and Collectables," and he peered out at the world through the hole in the letter "Q". He silently watched, as across the street, a small terrier was trotting down the side-walk, busily leaving little wet messages on the row of spindly maples that the town council had planted only two weeks earlier in a beautification project.
The bell above the door rang and in walked Mrs. Fitzer, a woman of means and old money, with the body of a washing machine.
He quickly ceased his private probing of the pelvis and turned toward her with a smile that would have scattered vultures off a rotting carcass.
Mrs. Fitzer smiled a dentured smile in response, while tugging at her clenching girdle. She then turned and silently stared at a light-blue vase that sat upon a Melanomia desk-and-drawers. Her brown eyes became hypnotized by the pretty pink flowers that adorned the vase and by the rows of Chinese script that encircled the base and lid. Meanwhile, the man walked slowly toward her with his hands behind his back. His head was perched off its central axis and appeared as if it might, at any moment, roll right off his shoulders and fall to the floor — with his smile still intact.
"Oh, Mrs. Fitzer, its so-o-o good to see you again. I must say, you are looking as well as ever, my dear." He sparkled, while looking down at her walrus butt. His fingers twitched. "I see that you are gazing at the Ma-Ling Dynasty vase again...have you made a decision...or are you simply admiring its exquisite beauty once more, hmmm?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Talon," she crackled, "I think that I have decided that I would very much like to buy this magnificent work of art on this very day. Yes, yes,...I think I shall."
He smiled, but before his tongue could produce a single syllable, she continued on in her gravelly drone: "I was just on my way to the "Women's Club" meeting today at the Armory, when I remembered seeing this lovely vase here last weekend, while shopping with my sister Ruth. You remember, don't you? You know,...the lady who accompanied me here last weekend?"
"Oh, of course Mrs. Fitzer...a wonderful woman, how could I have possibly forgotten such a charming person?"
"Yes...she is quite charming...in her own way...much more than can be expected from a person in her condition. Which is why I would like to apologize once again for the crystal plate she broke while she was here, but, well, she does have trouble with that leg of hers in close quarters."
"Oh, please...think nothing of it," he slithered, "really, it was an understandable mishap."
"You are such a kind, sweet man." She smiled and touched his cheek with her paw. He didn't bat an eye; but his fingers were playing with themselves behind his back. Mrs. Fitzer meanwhile tugged at an ivory swan earring, the weight of which, made her earlobe droop like an elephant's bottom lip. "Anyway," she mooed, "I wish to purchase this vase today. I've been thinking about it all week and how stunning it would look on my mantel, right next to my insect collection."
"Well then," he bubbled, "I'll wrap it up for you." He took the piece, ever-so-gently, off of the Melanomia desk-and-drawers, and walked into the backroom. Mrs. Fitzer wandered about the shop much the same way a penguin chick does when searching for its mother amidst the millions of identical birds. She touched things and caressed others and continually hummed like an air conditioner until Mr. Talon reappeared. "There you are, Mrs. Fitzer, and may I say that I think that you have made a very fine choice, a very fine choice indeed. Of all the pieces in my shop, I think that this vase was by far, the most beautiful. It has a quality all its own, a kind of magical presence that makes it so appealing to look at...really, quite remarkable." He stared out into space, suddenly struck by his own amazing slickness. Then he smiled his crocodile smile.
He wondered how many times he had said that identical phrase. How many women had he spewed his polished words and manners at? How many had lapped up his compliments like starving prisoners that will consume anything that looks even remotely edible? He suddenly saw hundreds of older female faces pass through his mind, faces that all had one thing in common: they were each enveloped within the vain attempts to look young, covered with masks of heavy make-up and surgical-rendered tightness. He saw them pass in a blur of similarity. Older faces that couldn't — wouldn't — surrender to nature, or reality. They were an easy type to spot, easier still, as he very well knew, to exploit. He realized that he couldn't even begin to count them all.
He had moved to this small town just six months ago, after leaving another town just like it, and how many had already blushed and swayed nervously, just like Mrs. Fitzer was doing now — nervous, but anxious to hear more? How many wealthy, older women had first come to his shop to look at his wares, then returned to buy some inane piece of over-priced junk? Then they returned again and again, to buy what they truly desired, the one thing their club meetings and boring husbands couldn't give them, the one thing that time steals and refuses to give back — youth. They came to him and drank the bitter elixir he provided, never realizing that even the most subtle of potions has its own addictive qualities. Perhaps this is why Mr. Talon's business always thrives, no matter what town he resides in.
"That 'll be two-thousand dollars, Mrs. Fitzer,...cash, or charge?"
"Charge it, please, and Mr. Talon...you may call me Alice, if you wish..." She smiled and laid the bank card upon the counter, but instead of picking it up, he took her hand in his and stared into her eyes. She looked intently into his twin black orbs and saw what she wanted to see, what she wanted to believe. She could finally forget the truths found in mirrors and clocks.
The twin images of herself as a young woman were worth any price, and she would soon learn that they could only be found within the eyes of Mr. Talon. With her fat, alligator-skin wallet, she would fuel those images, with her vanity she would feed off of them. But unlike most parasite/host relationships, she would learn to play both parts simultaneously.
She listened as his cliche's began to roll off his thin lips. With each word, the fog around her became deeper and deeper, until she was numb — too lost to think of anything else, too lost to see anything but his dark eyes and the reflections of herself becoming younger and younger in them, too lost to feel his twitching fingers as they slowly encircled her waist.
Outside the shop, the small terrier was making his way back up the street. Behind him were hundreds of little wet calling cards.
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176Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbhLmSsw4yA
