She’s about to leave the thrift store empty-handed, which makes her feel flat in a strange way. There’s always one item that makes her wonder who owned this and why would they give it away? A mug with a name in fancy script, a hula figurine from Hawaii, a glass goose lamp with a bulb in its beak—all these had become her treasures, even though she didn’t know the stories behind them.
She puts her empty basket back on the stack. As she turns to leave, she sees him.
He’s flipping through the rack of men’s suits and she almost doesn’t register the cold shock of seeing him again after all this time. Then it washes over her like a wave he’d splash her with in the river, urging her to join him. She always stayed close to the rocky bank, complaining about the trash and chemicals and bodies sure to be floating mere inches from where he bobbed in the water.
“You’ll be covered in radioactive goo when you come out!” she’d warn, and he’d come out right then, saying “I’ll shower it off,” before wrapping his arms around her and saying, “Now I better soap you up, too.”
And they had, weekend after weekend, summer after summer, until she’d been the one ready to jump in and he was still treading water.
Now here he was, buying a suit. At a thrift store, which must mean he still doesn’t own one, still doesn’t have the money for that, or the need for it. But he’s buying one now—for a date? A wedding? A funeral? Part of her wants to know, wonders if he can be the treasure she takes home this time, learning everything that happened since that day so long ago.
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