Holly Iglesias

Ye Olde Whatever Shoppe

Heading west, strip mall strip mall strip mall, and at the blinking light halfway between here and there the remains of a junk store where we shopped for wine glasses for a party for your new friends the year we lived apart, the owner slumped behind piles of receipts and empty bags of Fritos, the radio emitting nothing but static as we worked our way between the shelves, dumb with grief, wary of breaking things in this world of glass — ash trays, teacups, jelly jars, pickle crocks, platters, tureens, ramekins, tumblers, brandy snifters, wine glass wine glass wine glass — the shroud of dust lifting like a living thing each time the door opened, settling each time it closed.