Page 92 of Error Handling
“Turn right. Turn right!” I say when Chris shows no inclination of turning into the parking lot.
He steps on the brake, hits reverse because no one is behind us, and turns.
“Sorry,” I say.
Chris pulls into a parking space and cuts the engine. “I’ve never noticed this place.”
“It’s unassuming. And you only have three pieces of furniture in your apartment and nothing on the walls, so I wouldn’t expect you to be a picker.”
“I’m not. Not in public, anyway.”
I swat his arm. “A picker is someone who looks through people’s homes and garages in search of antiques and treasures.”
“Oh. I thought you were talking about something else.”
“This place is where pickers display their treasures.”
“I like how the show, American Pickers, makes a disorder seem like a virtue. ‘Hey, I’ve got five barns stuffed with junk that I haven’t seen in thirty years, and my wife left me because our refrigerator is always full of moldy food, but I’ve got a car from a Tilt-a-Whirl that you might like if we can dig it out from underneath my mannequin collection.’”
I narrow my eyes at Chris and shake my head. “I didn’t realize you were so judgy. And also, I think that’s the longest sentence you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m a minimalist.”
“Is that what you call your apartment? Minimalist?”
“I call it my man pad.”
I laugh and muss Chris’s hair. It’s soft like I expected. And electric. Not like I expected. Each curl sends tingles into my fingers. I play with a curl a moment longer than I ought to, and Chris sits quietly, looking at me with his puppy dog eyes set in a serious expression. It’s a good thing I’m seated because it’s another knee-buckling moment.
“We better go in,” I say.
Chris clears his throat. “Yeah.”
We open the creaky doors on his truck and head into the antique store. Its floorplan consists of a long aisle between two rows of booths, which makes it easy for us to slowly peruse each vendor’s offerings. We pass an old dentist’s chair, a wall of mounted deer skulls with horns still attached, a 1950s metal table with depression-era glassware displayed atop it, a strange wooden table made of driftwood.
“How about this?” Chris says. He walks over to the driftwood table and points to the twin lamps sitting on it. The ceramic bases consist of a man and a woman perched on something akin to coral, holding billowing fabric that merges visually with the oddly ornate lampshades. They are...interesting.
“This is you joking again, isn’t it?” I say.
“I think they’re artistic.”
“Oh geez, now I know why you think my paintings are good.”
“Okay, I was kidding. The lamps are ugly. Your paintings are amazing.”
“Phew. Anyway, those won’t fit in your carry-on.”
Chris returns to my side. “They might if I pulverized them with my sledgehammer.”
“I think the world would be a more beautiful place if you did.”
Chris gives me a side hug and then turns my body to wrap his other arm around me. For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. He just squeezes me for a few seconds and then lets go.
“What exactly are we looking for?” he asks when we continue down the center aisle.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
We pass a few more booths, and then come to my favorite vendor. The booth is packed with midcentury modern furniture, lamps, art, and knickknacks. I run over to the credenza that I’ve been drooling over since I first saw it three years ago.