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Arthur continues griping about my cat. “I don’t know why you keep that nasty animal. He hates everybody.”
“No, he doesn’t hate everybody. He just hates you.”
Arthur scoffs with world-class indignation.
The door jingles and we look up to see the mailman drop off what looks like bills.
Lovely.
“Afternoon, everyone,” he calls before he leaves.
“Afternoon,” Arthur sings after him.
I stop organizing leashes. “Is he, you know, on your team? That mailman?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. He may or may not be. I can still admire him, you know. Nothing wrong with that.” He picks up my mail and starts nosing through it, shaking an envelope and holding it up to the light.
I’d normally be annoyed by that, someone looking at my mail. But Arthur is… Arthur.
“Things seem a little quiet around here,” he says.
What does he want? A marching band?
“No. It’s just early in the day. That’s all.”
He sniffs like I’m bullshitting him, and I guess I am. Who the hell am I kidding? I’ve been open three hours and not a single customer has stopped in.
A nervousness, a sense of unease, one I’ve been repressing for weeks, makes its way to the surface. It’s as if Arthur’s observation, his saying out loud what I’ve been trying to pretend isn’t happening, opened some sort of gate. It doesn’t feel good. And I know it’s time to be honest with myself.
But not just yet.
“It will be fine,” I insist. “Not every day has people streaming in and out. It’s the nature of retail. It was the same way with the shoe store across the street. Well, the one that used to be across the street.”
He cranes his neck to see out the window and clucks his tongue at the sight of the deserted boutique.
People around here do not like a blight on their neighborhood. I’m surprised a petition hasn’t already gone around, demanding thatsomeone dosomething.
Like it’s that easy.
“Yeah, well, you see what happened to them. And the Pet Outlet across town seems to be doing a lot of business.”
I swing my gaze in his direction. “What are you saying, Arthur? That Pawsh Pets is going under? Thanks. I’d think you could be a little more supportive,” I snap.
His eyes widen at my tone.
No one understands how important this place is to me. It’s my home. It’s part of me. What would I be if I didn’t have it?
I finish tagging the new dog leashes and start hanging them on the wall. Arthur glares out the front window, my mail still in his hand, to avoid looking at me. I get it. We’re annoyed with each other. But we’ll forget it ever happened in a minute or two.
Or sooner.
“Wow. This looks like quite the invite you’ve received, Livvy,” he says, holding a cream envelope.
“An invite? To what?” I wipe my hands on my work smock and take it from him. It’s made of thick paper and is heavy. Like a high-end wedding invitation.
How do I know this? My sister’s wedding, of course.
“Livvy, looks like you got an engraved invitation from the three culinary musketeers next door.”
