“You’ve got t’be kidding me,” the blonde grunted, venetian glass crunching beneath the weight of his heels as he carried himself across the store. A hip had brushed against the edge of a table, sending the colourful paperweight to it’s demise, cracking, s h a t t e r i n g as it hit the floor. The antique’s shop was too damn small for a man of his size to be clomping around in, but the little, old woman had insisted on hiring him ( later it would make sense, her decision boiling down to his taut ass, impossible to hide beneath thick Levi’s ). He couldn’t complain, though, not necessarily -- a job was a job, which was more than he could ask for in half of the middle-of-nowhere towns that speckled Ohio. It was the peace and quiet of Sproat’s that kept him in that god-forsaken town, knowing he had the chance at a new beginning, a chance to make something of the twenty-three years wasted.
