Writer’s Sketch 6: A Slow Winter’s Day

The sound of a clock ticking off the seconds remains my only company. It’s a slow day. Winter seldom brings visitors to my humble shop near the outskirts of town. A dizzying glow of light flickers as the filament in my sole lamp is sure to die out soon. Thankfully, the day grants several more hours of sunlight before the contents of my store become a shrouded maze of shelves and boxes. It would be wonderful if even a single soul passed my way. The jams are lonely on their shelf, lusting for a crusty slice of bread or maybe even a luxurious scone. And in this cold, it’s a shock the fresh cream hasn’t turned to butter.

Here I stay, perched behind the clunky register, my woolen jacket absorbing the sweet harvest smell of the shop. I have to admit, the grassy stench of hay has become overbearing. A buzz of wheels catches my attention, like a hunter in the forest, my ears trace its rumbling roar down the street and out of earshot. The road adjacent to the lot is a path of deception, its travelers wandering ever-so close but never stopping. There’s fresh bread! Baked just this morning! If only they knew.

A pop echoes across the spacious floor. The lamp light has finally gone dark. It’s unfortunate, but well expected. It does comes as a surprise how the far reaches of the room are now dim, as if time has accelerated them into the evening. Even the window above the pie display seems clouded. The clock ticks have grown louder, marking the passage of another profitless day. From the rafters, a beam of wood creaks, yielding to a gust outside. And yet, from my clear view through the several paned windows, the foliage lays still. In fact, there is no wind at all. The beam in question, as I have become accustom to its moans, only utters such a noise against the wind.

There it is again! Suddenly, dropping directly in front of me, a small statured man cloaked in black stands ready to confront me with what looks to be nunchucks. Although, as his eyes reveal, he is as equally as surprised to see me. Perhaps he was expecting another employee? My father? The girl down the lane? “What do you want?” I inquire, having realized I have stood in a precarious manner that says I am willing to flee at the drop of a pin.

“This isn’t the home of Mister Morimoto, I take it.” When the words began to fall from his mouth, I flinched. But, that was his response. He did not attack or shout as I expected. It was a simple statement, one not even in my most remote guesses of what this masked man might have said.

“No,” is all I managed to reply.

His shoulders drop and the weapon’s chain jingles. “Not again,” he grumbles, relaxing his spine and slumping over, clearly dejected. “This is the third time I’ve got the location wrong. The other ninjas are going to kill me.”