Yes, yes, yes!
“Hi.” I greet the assistant with a bright smile before I almost bump into Oliver, whose feet seem to have turned into concrete. “What the f—”
“Fabulousness!” I shout, drowning out his growly dissent with enthusiasm and a sudden jazz-hands movement.
“You’re not the first person to be taken aback by the size of this place,” the store assistant offers happily, glancing up from the counter.
This place is huge. I guess this floor must be for homewares, as lounge and dining settings are dotted about the space, the rear wall filled with racks of plates and bowls and kitchenware.
I kind of love thrifting, though I don’t get to do it often. But when I do, I always come back with at least one gem. Which is why I stick my hand into a nearby wire basket overflowing with chunky glassware.Is that a novelty sherry glass?I yank my hand back, because nope. That thing looks more like a butt plug.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I turn my attention to the woman, her hair a shade of gray closer to lilac. I love how stores like this are almost exclusively manned by older friendly women. Trendier thrift stores, those run by hipsters and retro-loving cool kids, seem to have the vibe all wrong.
There’s something comforting about thrifting, not just because I’m doing my bit to fight fast fashion and landfills. And who doesn’t want to do their bit for curing cancer, helping the homeless, and saving animals? But it’s more than that for me. It’s the idea of the unwanted finding a new home, being recycled, reused, and reloved. Or maybe it’s flipping the bird to how I was raised.Who knows?
“Could you direct me to the men’s section, please?”
Oliver grunts, and the poor assistant’s eyes fly wide.
“Pay him no mind. He’s just stressed. You know what it’s like when you’re time poor but you need a new outfit for the weekend. Worst feeling in the world, right?”
Oliver glowers.
“No need to explain, dear. My Arthur used to sulk like a sullen baby when he had to go shopping with me.” Oliver’s attention spikes to the woman. “That’s it,” she says. “That’s the exact face he used to pull. I bet he’s still pulling it in his coffin. Anyway, menswear is in the basement.” She looks down at her ledger, and I swear she adds under her breath, “Same place as Arthur went.” However, it’s not her ledger that draws my attention but the laminated cards stuck to the front of the counter.
NOBACKPACKS. NOSHOPPINGBAGS.
“We’ve had a lot of theft lately.”
My attention shifts back. “In a charity shop?”
“Times are tough,” she says with a shrug. “Also, people are bastards.”
“Well, I just have my purse.”
“Wait.” Oliver reaches to his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and peels out a fifty-pound note. “Consider it insurance,” he says, putting it on the counter. He turns his dark look my way. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That was generous of you,” I say as he wanders ahead.
“What do you suppose her title is?” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Door dragon? Member number one of the unwelcoming party?”
“Be nice. This is acharityshop.”
“My charity extends to that fifty and to ten minutes. That’s how long you have to torture me.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“If I get flea bites—”
“Such a snob!” I say as we approach the staircase down. “Bo’s fleas seem to know better, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. Your blood is probably too bitter for flea tastes.”
“But not for yours,” he says slinging his arm around my waist, hauling me against him. “Do you think your sweetness and light balance me out?”
“Of course. Aren’t you glad you found me?”
“Oh, I count my lucky stars daily,” he whispers, making me shiver when he presses a kiss behind my ear. “Let’s get this over with.”
