For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn, read the notice in the window of Hemingway’s Children’s Clothes store on Main Street. Upon seeing it, Mrs. Robert Jordan clicked her tongue. ‘Naturally, the goods are new, this is not a thrift shop,’ she complained to her companion that morning, Mrs. Frederic Henry.
Mrs Jordan’s own clothes were not new. Her outfit, once sharply tailored, now had scuffs and modest repairs along the seams. On her head sat a felt hat with a broad, generous brim. Its shape, though once elegant, was softened and creased over time.
Both ladies were of an age never to need baby shoes.
Lifted by their displeasure, the two ladies advanced to the butcher’s shop where Mrs Jordan harassed the man to sell her his cheapest cut of meat at a reduced price. The two ladies parted company here and Mrs Jordan alone visited the baker and a provision store to buy the ingredients for her husband’s mid-day meal. She would retrace the same journey in the afternoon to make his supper.
Back home, Mrs Jordan busied herself in the kitchen. She slipped a chop into a heated pan and found a sharp knife.
The notice in the store window was troubling her. She remembered the days when she had been happy. She thought of the baby shoes she had bought at Hemingway’s and the bootees and the little shawl she had knitted herself.
She told herself it was the onions she was peeling that made her cry.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 