this is a story about a candy store in winter
it stands lonely amongst popular, inhibitory acquaintances, trembling for any attention at all; its windows subtle mirrors to the scarves that float by, door softened by the touch of shivering palms, and desserts staining the bitter tongues of jilted lovers. a beige sweater sits on a high wooden stool behind the counter, jadedly, haphazardly, looking up from a rectangle of light to squint only at wisps of ice from the outside. little and big coats alike peer in eagerly to the picture of shelves lined with bags of brown, white, dust... friendship, gluttony, regret
today, you and your accompanying jacket defy the still air to step into the store. it is winter in a town built with unfamiliar corners and made jagged by cobblestones. you pull its stiff sleeves around the crooks and crannies of this place you do not know. look, you say, look at all the candy i’m going to buy. there is nary another in sight, and so in the anonymity the moment provides, it reciprocates to your genuine devotion, lays its calloused hand around your waist, pulls you within the space that exists between its heart and yours. its touch is chilly against your insulated skin, but you do not care. instead you relish in its fleeting affection, amble around like it is normal. you think, you are normal, we are normal, and then it exclaims, look at the candy i’m holding
laughter seeps from the knitting of the beige sweater, and amidst all the sweets, you think you are the one filled with the most amount of sugar
moments later, you place the bags of brown, white, dust on the counter; on its tongue, a crystallised candy from the basket. deft fingers turn your gifts into tan pouches and similar ribbons, its red lips asking in return, where is the factory from which your sweetness was made? at the question, the jacket’s touch freezes in the heat, leaves the small of your back and reinstates the space between, leaves the premises entirely to your own conviction. you then remember the memory of the army green garment walking on as you passed this candy store. perhaps it was yesterday, or perhaps it was years ago in your dreams. it is lonely, yet unlike you, it does not drown in the hope of something warmer than the pieces that visit
you remember that same image twice, thrice, many times. your surroundings have turned into an empty street—the smell of cocoa, and dim, yellow lights absent. you are standing alone in the middle of winter with sweets in hand, and the thrift shop jacket peppering the concrete in front of you with its indifferent threads of snow. chocolate is soft and melts easily despite the cold, but all you feel now is the bitterness of the bar that lies abandoned on the shelf, kept away from others like a ***** secret, paper cuts from the brown paper bag of the candy store