Window Shopping
Mona Matt
I was window shopping for a new life. My shoes left deep prints in the snow where no one had yet cleared the sidewalk. Snowflakes buried into the wool of my scarf and lingered on my eyelashes. I walked back home from a ten-hour shift, looking into the brightly decorated shop windows and the unveiled homes of people living too close to the street. A woman was cooking, the steam fogging up the window and wafts of coriander, potatoes and meat stew slithered through the air vent. I couldn’t feel my nose anymore, the cold working hard to numb my body, but I could still smell and the sensation carried me along.
The display in a bookshop showed the newest releases, a self-help book on how to be comfortable with yourself, a motivation guide, a picture book of Santa visiting a remote, snowbound village. My own book, published just two weeks ago, was nowhere in sight.
I pulled out my phone to check the time but just as the display lit up, it went dark again. It always did when the temperature dropped below minus five degrees. I turned left past the central bus station and caught a glimpse into a shabby corner store decorated with tinsel and brushwood. The vendor leaned on the counter, her head propped up on both hands, fighting against heavy eyelids. Her bright pink hair shone in the neon light like a pixy covered in fairy dust. A familiar, mellow song drifted from the shop onto the street, dancing around me before sinking into the snow, muffled and silenced. I entered the shop, suddenly exhausted from everything.
“Good evening,” I said to the girl, ripping her from a doze.
“Hey, what can I get for you?” she replied with a heavy tongue and a droopy smile.
“Can I get a hot chocolate?” I asked pointing at the calcified, rusty machine in the corner.
“Sure.” The girl filled the cheap paper cup up to the brim and handed me the steaming hot sweetness. “Two Fifty.”
“Thank you,” I replied, paid and stuffed a five-euro bill into her empty tip jar when my eyes landed on my book. Dogeared and with a coffee stain on the cover.
“Are you reading that?” I asked, my heart racing.
“Oh, no. A costumer left it a couple of days ago. It’s just been lying around since.”
I nodded and left the shop, the image of my hard work reduced to a coaster burning in my mind. The cold felt more violent back outside but it was only one more block to my apartment. My neighbours all had their lights on, some flashing blue and red, some a flickering silver, some a comfortable orange. I came by the antique shop where I bought most my furniture and décor. A naked light bulb in the window illuminated a pair of cufflinks perched on a large rosewood secretary. The shop was quite the contrast to the bright, shimmering shops on the main road highlighting shiny new items with no history and no character. My own image was reflected back at me, a sad woman smiling at me. Snow froze on my head and millions of tiny droplets made my coat glimmer. The hot chocolate steamed and warmed my gloved hands. I blew on it gently and took a sip, the rich, dark chocolate running down my throat like essential medicine.
Once I reached my post-war soviet building, I searched for the keys in my backpack, stuffed underneath papers and tissues. Mr. Carmichael, my downstairs neighbour, was dancing in his living room, his record player on the highest volume. I could see his silhouette through the sheer curtains, his arthritis riddled body moving in a jagged rhythm. He never stopped dancing, even in the small pause between the last and the next song. I took the last sip from my cocoa and decided to turn around, the sudden urge to save my book from the dumpster carrying me back along the frozen roads.
When I reached the corner store, I almost ran into a man hurrying out the shop, his coffee spilling over in every direction.
“Sorry,” I said and was about to step out of his way, when in his hands, I spotted my book.
“The book,” I just said, not able to take my eyes off the shiny white cover with the round coffee stain.
“Oh yes, I forgot it here last week. Glad it was still there,” he replied. “Couldn’t really sleep without knowing the ending.” He stumbled along, soon disappearing around the corner, his coat flapping behind. A laugh escaped my throat and I hurried back to my apartment.
The smell of tangerines, peppermint tea, and a scented pumpkin candle greeted me at the door. I threw my coat into the bathtub to dry, rushed to make tea while my socks were warming up on the radiator before slumping down at my desk. Time to write the next one. Maybe the story about a man forgetting his book at a corner store and giving a failed author new hope. Maybe something about Santa not visiting that snowed-in village. Maybe something about a girl window shopping for a new life instead of tailoring her old one. I didn’t know yet. But with a blanket over my legs, Joan Baez singing from the record player downstairs and a hot cup of tea, writing seemed possible again.
Mona Matt
Mona was born in 1998, is an MA student in creative writing at the University of Hull and a part time book seller. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, making coffee, and hunting down her next hyper fixation. Mona currently lives in southern Germany with her two guineapigs Aristotle and Dante.