1000 Words, Volume 1

The Man Who Sold Dreams

The afternoon sun is annoyingly bright, even for early September. For a curiosity shop, the place is orderly enough, but a seemingly endless supply of dust fills each beam of light that passes through the smudged glass of the shop’s front door and windows. The place could be confused with the kind of idealized old attic that so often appeared in the children’s tales of some forgotten youth. Filled with dress dummies and chests. With fine things from another time. But nothing ideal happens here.

As he wipes the residue of his last project from his counter, just in case the rare customer should come through the door, the man who sold dreams pauses under the weight of his own mind. More and more he feels the weight of all that was. What once floated along behind him like a bunch of balloons now hangs around his neck like a yoke. He allows himself the briefest second before he takes a deep breath and continues his task. Momentum is, after all, one of the few things he has left.

In his youth, the man who sold dreams was, if not fun, pleasant. Having had considered himself something of a dreamer, there was a light hearted hope and a sentimental introspection that often invited others into long and thoughtful conversations. Thinking of that person, that long gone young man, is like thinking of the fresh smooth skin, where now there are only scars.

He finishes his task, brushing the debris into the dented metal trash can that he keeps beneath the counter, and arranges the very old mantle clock that he’d just gone to great lengths to restore. A little to the left, then back right. Then twisted a few degrees so that patch of sunlight that bounces off the polished wooden floor can illuminate the mother of pearl inlay around the clock’s face. The beautiful object seems to almost hum. To the man who sold dreams, it seems to vibrate. He has often wondered if that’s perception or madness, perhaps the two aren’t very far removed.

The man who sold dreams knows that somewhere out there right now, an idealistic young person has been romanticizing the past - having given themself permission to ignore the injustices and cruelties that history too tries so hard to forget and instead chooses to focus on the long and winding pea gravel paths that led up to grand manors. On the vast rooms filled with ornate furnishings and rich textiles. On dressing for dinner and savoring each of the courses served by the footmen. On the after dinner whisky by the friendly fires set under carved wooden mantels adorned with perfectly proportioned clocks. This clock is someone's dream. It waits.

The man who sold dreams suspects that he does not have the energy, motivation, or strength - of his hands or his mind,  to start another project today. He goes to the coffee pot and drains the remains into a chipped mug. Perhaps a shot of caffeine will help. Perhaps not. For a moment he is perfectly still. His eyes closed. The afternoon sun that pours through the front of the shop warm on the back of his legs. It is only then, after having given up on the possibility that anything good could come out of this day, when he hears the door open, the bells above jingle, and the hinges creak. What he didn’t expect was the sweet, flowery smell. 

She too was something from the past, but in no way that invited or deserved restoration. She looked hardly different than she did when they were young. The only thing different was her eyes. Though no less beautiful, there was a depth and a sadness to her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Looking at her felt so strange. She was the reason for so many things. She was the reason he no longer played certain songs. She was the reason that daisies made him the tiniest bit sad. And she was the reason he had told the people who had been interested, and there were few, that he did not believe in soul mates. He had to say that. If he didn’t, and he admitted that he thought that yes maybe he did believe in soul mates, then he’d have no choice but to admit that he’d lost his, and that was just a little too sad, even for the man who sold dreams.

The last time he saw her, they were in this very same spot. She had to go, as she had a train to catch, but he was hopeful that their night together had meant something more was to come. It had been a reunion worthy of the name, that allowed the participants to feel as though time hadn’t made fools of them, but as stated, she had to go. Trains. Travel. Distance. And waiting. He didn’t wait long though. It was only a month after that sweet reunion filled with summer air and scratchy piano records, that he received her engagement announcement from the postman. He didn’t know what was more cruel - that she was to marry another just one month after they had reunited, or that she had formally announced it to him on 80 lb cardstock with gold embossed letters.

That was the last time that he saw her, or touched her, or kissed her, but it was not the last time he spoke to her. That was the night before her wedding. He’d never heard anyone as in need of saving as she was on that call. He offered escape and choices and freedom, but she didn’t accept any offer, and even now after so much time had passed he wasn’t sure he should have offered.

And now, after all this time here she was again, back where it all began. Perhaps this was fitting. They say that even the most clever criminals sometimes return to the scene of the crime.