location: Rustic Relics status: closed (@osvaldo-rivas) *****
The sussurrus of tires on concrete; a half-turn of the wheel and it becomes the crunch of gravel, slowing. Miles turns the key, kills the ignition, listens to the Beast’s engine ticking as it cools. A short drive. A small town. Nothing here is more than ten minutes away from anything else; could have walked. But the cab of the old green Land Rover is a reassurance – familiar armor against all the newness. Not like he hasn’t done this kind of thing a thousand times – ordered recruits around without a second thought. Greeted hundreds of customers, offered a hallo and a handshake to attractive strangers in a bar. Hands once rock-steady, solid enough to defuse bombs, a little shaky now, clammy-palmed. Funny what three days’ worth of missed meds will do; time to find a local pharmacy, face the annoyance of all the phone business required for a transfer and refill. Miles swipes his hands along trouser legs, clears his throat, flicks an imaginary speck off the sleeve of his cardigan. Checks his watch – only one today, the Cartier, always maddeningly slow despite its ridiculous cost. (The G-shock – homelier but more accurate – remains at home, unpaired, no point inviting questions. Half-past ten – far enough past the shop's opening time to allow the owner to finish setting up for the day, early enough to avoid looking like a laggard. Once last glance in the rearview – smooth down an obstinate ginger-brown cowlick – and then there’s nothing to it but to do it. Freshly-shined oxfords on the pavement. Rustic Relics – the irony enough to draw a wry smile; becoming a bit of a relic himself. Miles pulls the glass door open, the little bell jingling above. Smudges on the mullioned panes; a good sign, maybe a second pair of hands is needed. The counter stands empty; he’s about to call out a tentative greeting when there’s a rustle of movement from behind an armoire. *****
