Not Like They Used To

I knew I had that gut feeling that something was off. First, I was alone in the shop, my family's magic shop in New Jersey. Montvale, to be exact. Then I heard an endless amount of noises; I was incredibly startled by the littlest thing! There was a crack at the window, from the thunderstorm outside- this thunderstorm was the fiercest one I have seen and heard in my twenty years of life! I stumbled behind the register and spilled my cup of hot cocoa all over my nice white sweater! Ugh. This was why I never wore white! I happened to today, because it was the only fuzzy warm sweater I had left that wasn't dirty! Just my luck! Now I looked like an idiot with a big brown stain all over my front!

The nor'easter hit us with such force that I prayed the electricity wouldn't go out! Then the alarm system we had built in wouldn't work.

I was terrified someone was coming into the shop to rob us! And there I was, alone! In our little magic shop, Me, Myself, and Magix! Magix was our dog, our blonde-haired golden retriever who barked constantly, but he had also been my protector against any possible intruder. He was the best, Magix, he was my homeboy, the jelly to my peanut butter, the butter to my toast, the star to my burst. I loved him more than I loved people. Especially more than customers. Customers in this particular shop were always obnoxious. The only customers who were polite were the little old Italian lady who came in every Friday afternoon to pick up tissue paper. But she was nice, and I helped her find it in the shop each week. When I had to help her, it was the light at the end of a very dark tunnel of my week.

She said last week, "Cynthia! I need you! These fingers don't work like they used to!" She shouted at me last Friday. She still wrapped gifts, and I never knew how she did it, even when she said the same thing each week. I knew that was why she wanted tissue paper, but why did she come to this shop in particular, when there was a Dollar Store next to us? For much less money? I had a hunch that it was someone else in particular she hoped to 'bump' into.

"I'll be right there, Beatrice!" I shouted from behind the register. Our store was decorated and flooded with so many knick-knacks that I had to keep her from coming near any breakable items, knocking things over, tripping, and whatnot. Beatrice was on the cusp of having a broken hip if she tripped on one of these lamps that were obstacles around our shop. She was eighty-three years old- and still lived alone. If she were my Grandmother, I would have looked out for her. I didn't think she had anyone who had looked out for her. The poor thing, my Grandmother passed away when I was little, so I missed that connection entirely. I looked out for Ms. Stinlers. Beatrice was so kind and funny, and made meatballs for me every week.

"You've got too thin! Darling, Cynthia, you need to mangia!" She shouted at me every week, and I laughed. I always smiled at her kind attitude towards me. She let me eat, while my parents were more strict. I welcomed Beatrice's warmth and love.

My parents thought I needed to work out and eat clean, just like they did — my Mom and Dad, Lois and Boris — have exhausted turkey burgers and zucchini pasta. I completely devoured Beatrice's Italian feast, which she fed me every week in complete and utter privacy. That was the only reason why I was happy being alone in the shop. So I was able to enjoy her food in peace, without my parents' scrutiny.

The other polite customer who came in weekly was Horace. Horace Peachsterra. He was just as old as she was. But they bumped into each other every week, and it was like I was watching an old movie unfold right before my eyes. It was serendipitous. The fact that they met each other in our shop! They talked, and they had moments in the back corner by the kids' section. The Beatrice and Horace love story that unraveled in our shop was the best thing I have ever seen in my whole life. And I was beyond lucky to have witnessed it.

"So, Beatrice, what are your plans this weekend?" Horace asked Beatrice last Friday, after she handed me my tupperware full of meatballs and her delectable homemade red sauce.

"I have plans with my best friend, Norma, we go to the city and get dinner and drinks at our favorite pub," Beatrice said and smiled coyly. Beatrice's long, straight white hair was tied in a braid. Her pink glasses glimmered with metallic shine. She had style, Beatrice, that was for sure.

Horace, on the other hand, dressed blandly in khaki pants and a black shirt, the same outfit every week. He was more predictable than she was. She always had a bit of flair.

"Oh, the city! Wow, that must be nice. That's a great night, yeah, yeah, I'll be sitting home, just relaxing," Horace told her. It seemed like he wanted an invitation to this dinner with her and Norma, but I didn't want to meddle, yet I did so badly at the same time. Imagining Horace alone, longing to be with Beatrice. It killed me on the inside.

I knew Horace was shy; he would have never asked her out. They were both single! It was meant to be!

I wanted those two to get together.

"Beatrice, Horace loves Italian food! He just told me the other day! When he was picking up stuff for his grandson." I said, charged with excitement.

"Oh, you do?! What's your favorite?" Beatrice asked Horace last week. As I remembered, it was getting darker earlier, and I was worried they wouldn't be able to drive home in the dark, okay. I remembered Beatrice had floaters in her eyes and could barely see as it was; I never knew how she got around. I felt like she just walked everywhere she went. Everything she needed was local.

They stood there and talked forever. But I was happy as a clam watching it.

"My favorite? Well, I certainly love manicotti and lasagna—I love all of it, really. I don't ever pass up good Italian food," Horace said.

"Oh, interesting, Cynthia is a big fan of my meatballs, maybe I'll cook you some next time," Beatrice said sweetly.

"Oh, you shouldn't, I wouldn't want to be a bother," Horace said.

"I would be happy to… Horace, if you like Italian food that much? It would make me happy cooking it!" Beatrice said, extremely delighted.

"Oh, well, hmm, well, instead of you just handing it to me- why don't you just come over one night and we can cook together?" Horace asked. I was giddy with excitement.

"Oh! That would be lovely. Horace, if you're sure?" Beatrice asked.

God, these two were just too polite for their own good! I just wanted them to go on a date! And then be in love, and have a happily ever after!!

"Of course, I have a stove and all the appliances you need to cook whatever you want. Bea," Horace said, and chuckled slightly.

God, these two were too stinking adorable!

"Why don't we do it a week from today? Next Friday?" Horace asked Beatrice.

"That would be lovely, I still would have to come here, however. To pick up my stuff," Beatrice said kindly.

"Oh, of course, well, we can cook dinner around 4 P.M. at my place? I'm just right down the block, two minutes away," Horace said.

"Sure, that would be great. Thank you, Horace," Beatrice said.

The plan to meet at his place happened last Friday. And I clocked Beatrice's schedule, and his, so I wouldn't miss their interaction in our shop- But it was getting late, and Beatrice still wasn't here. I was increasingly becoming concerned. She always came at five o'clock on the dot to pick up her tissue paper. A different color every week.

Where was she? I hoped she was okay!

Just keep busy, just keep busy, was the mantra in my head. I put up more Halloween stuff on our display mantel, which was behind me, and I had a million little ghost ceramic pieces to unpack. My parents bought these from Amazon. The giant box was too heavy for me to lift, so I had to bend each time to unwrap a ghost. They were cute, but they had cheesy expressions plastered on their faces. Like one had a goofy grin, one had a growl-type expression. They were all bigger than my hand, so I had to be extra careful handling them. My parents were so strict about everything I said and did. If I broke one of these ghost figurines, I would have been hearing about it for a month straight—how much they had cost.

I listened to the storm outside, the lightning still cracked, and I heard tree branches crack against the shop. Magix was going wild over the damage outside. He was a tough dog, but still hated thunder.

"Crap!" I shouted, and jumped, and my heart raced. That thunder was so loud! I held onto the ghost that had a grinning expression on its face, and Magix just ran into my leg, startled by all the noise outside. And of course, the ghost slipped out of my hands and fell, and splintered into a million little pieces! Shit! Really?

I wasn't mad at Magix, but angry at myself. I wish I were more careful.

After I tried to brush away a million broken pieces of white ceramic with a broom, I heard the door open, all of a sudden. Our door always let out a loud creak when someone opened it.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. And her.

Horace and Beatrice stood side by side, and they held hands.

"Cynthia, darling? Are you there?"

I was in the back putting the cleaning stuff away so Magix wouldn't get hurt.

"Yes! Coming, Beatrice!" I hoped it was good news!

I went up to them because they were by the entrance door. I mean, they were holding hands, but only because under the glow of our Welcome sign in neon orange- I noticed Beatrice's right hand was all beat up and inflamed with burns.

"Cynthia- I could just…" Beatrice started to say.

"Cynthia, Beatrice, and I had a little bit of an accident in my kitchen, God, I'm such a putz!" Horace explained and almost knocked his round, vintage frames off his face out of frustration.

"Oh, no, what happened!" I shouted in surprise.

"I thought the stove was off, Horace!" Beatrice glared at him; her hand was wrapped in a paper towel, she was disheveled, and in pain.

"Oh, God, Beatrice, you have to go to the hospital! They need to treat your skin, look at that, oh God, I am so so sorry!" I shouted and started to tear up. I mean, the palm of her hand was so incredibly burnt. And puffy.

This was all my fault.

Her hand. Her okay-ish hand was even more injured now, more than ever! How was she going to come in every week and buy tissue paper and wrap something for someone? I thought to myself.

She had always said, "These hands don't work like they used to!" Ugh, why did I have to meddle? I blamed my parents' lack of emotional availability for me! And me- needing validation from others! Like from Beatrice and Horace!

"Beatrice, I am so, so sorry. Is there anything I could do?" I asked, hopeful that I could just magically heal her hand right then and there.

"Cynthia, I think you have done enough- I knew I shouldn't have cooked a four-course meal! Ugh! My hand," Beatrice said and started to cry. Horace held her and gently caressed her.

"Beatrice, let's go to the hospital; you need major treatment for those burns," Horace said to her. Beatrice seemed to listen to him, nodding and looking so angry at me—I cowered internally. I hoped she would come back to our shop. Me, Myself, and Magix!

Magix came up to my feet and sat on my right foot.

The storm started to die down outside, finally. But another storm was brewing in here!

"Do you need me to drive you? I can drive you!" I offered, desperately trying to make up for this enormous catastrophe I had caused.

"No, no, we'd probably be killed in a car wreck- if you drove us with your luck!" Beatrice shouted at me. And pointed her left index finger at me.

"Oh, Beatrice, please calm down, it wasn't the poor girl's fault the stove was on. It was mine!" Horace said.

The three of us stood there- all in distress. Horace had a calming tone in his voice, though, which was highly needed. At least he didn't hate me.

"I'll be in the car, Horace, let's go," Beatrice said, bitterly.

"Okay, I'll be right there. You go ahead," Horace said.

"Hopefully I can still open up the door to the car, with this busted up hand now!" Beatrice said, and whipped her head around, and her long white braid smacked me against my cheek; it was that long. Ouch.

I rubbed my cheek and cowered in pain. Magix stood next to me and barked.

My protector.

"She'll heal, just give it time. Cynthia," Horace explained, I do appreciate you, um, setting us up, though, you gave me a chance there- but, uh, yeah, I think this is it for me," Horace said to me and chuckled.

"I'm so sorry, I thought she was nice!" I shouted.

"During dinner, you know what she did? She laughed in my face after I told her how lovely I found her and how much I admired her beauty. She laughed! I don't think this will last too long, but it was nice for a night at least," Horace said.

He continued, "She laughed and said, Horace, you are the most boring human I have ever met in my life! I only gave you a chance to get that girl off my back. And all I really wanted to do was cook! I knew she's been dying to get her hands on my love life for some time now. I'm sorry, but yeah- after this, I am better off alone, trust me! I just used you for your kitchen," Horace told me. And he really didn't seem too bothered by it. If it were me, I would have been bawling my eyes out!

She used him just for his kitchen? That was savage.

"Sometimes, we're just better off alone, but hey, at least I gave it a shot. Bye, Cynthia. Thank you for at least being decent to us. Most young folks aren't too kind to me," Horace said.

I didn't think I'd ever see those two again in this shop. We just lost the nicest and dearest customers we've had for a few years—no more match-making for me. I guess I'll just keep my daytime job here in our family shop.