Page 93 of Error Handling

“This.” I stretch my arms along its length and give it my best attempt at a hug.

“That’s too big for my carry-on.”

“Oh, I know. I just think it’s amazing.” I straighten my back. “It’s a vintage Broyhill Brasillia credenza in walnut. If I ever decorated a room for someone, this is where I would start, assuming they were willing to pay three thousand dollars for it.”

Chris’s jaw drops.

“It’s worth it though. Isn’t it gorgeous? I’d mix midcentury modern with contemporary modern. I’ve already designed the room in my head, I just need the money to pay for it, or I need to spend someone else’s money to make it happen.”

He walks over and runs his hand along the smooth walnut. “You do seem to have a knack for decorating. Your apartment looked amazing before I destroyed it.”

“We both destroyed it.”

“I’m sure it will look great again if we ever get it done.”

“Oh, it will,” I say. “I could never live in your apartment. I’d come home every night, curl up in a corner, and cry. I need things to be pretty.”

“Have you ever thought of going into interior decorating?”

“You mean doing it as a job?” I lean a hip on the credenza and cross my arms.

“Yeah.”

“That seems about as viable as painting.”

“Everyone has a home. Not everyone needs a painting.”

“Not everyone needs a Broyhill Brasillia credenza in walnut.”

“True. You may need to lower your standards a bit. And your budget. Although there’s a lot of new money in Charleston. They come for the charm.”

“I’ve honestly never seriously thought about it. I just daydream.”

“Maybe you should think about it.”

He drapes his arm across my shoulders again and we return to the aisle, passing a display of reclaimed wooden doors, a shelf full of jade animals, and an old aviation chair.

I spot a glass case filled with vintage Pez dispensers and point. “Those weren’t there the last time I was here.” I run over to the case and peer down through the glass. “You could carry one of these in your pocket wherever you go.”

“I thought we were finding something for my apartment.”

“You could mount it in a shadow box.”

“A PEZ dispenser?”

“These go for big money. My dad collects plastic figurines. Including PEZ. Look.” I kneel in front of the case for a better view of the price tags. “There’s the die-cut rabbit with long ears. Oh man, the prices must have gone up a bit. He’s two hundred and fifty.”

“Dollars? For plastic?”

I glance up at him. “Rare plastic.”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s a Mimic the Monkey. He’s only one hundred and fifty.”

“Dollars?” Chris repeats, this time more emphatically. He kneels next to me.

“He doesn’t have feet.”