I'd Rather Go Blind

9th June 1958

Today was a salad of exaltation and hurt feelings, dear diary.

I think I previously mentioned my mercurial nature; it unfortunately confirms for many men the bias about women they've carried their whole lives. Ironic, considering the sudden violence of which they are capable!

Anyway, I have learned to live with myself, as one must if one wishes to go on living. I bring it up only to explain why today's events were both a blessing and a curse. All because my "dear friend" Sally -- which is NOT her real name! She was a stocky, almost bovine woman called Deirdre in life! -- sowed the unwelcome seeds of doubt in my mind... and it is fertile soil indeed.

I shall start with the good news at first. Before I do, however, I feel it is only fair to lay our scene in the antique store. Though most of the Colony falls under my purview, its inhabitants are invited to treat me, for all intents and purposes, as any other person.

In the store, however, I run a tight ship. Everything is organized just so, with items separated by type. From left of the entrance to the right, it goes: small furniture, paintings, then clocks, large furniture, books, pottery and glass, and back to small furniture. In the display cabinet in the center, we keep oddments and vintage collectibles, meaning they are newer. Most of them are things I want myself: I am rather a magpie, drawn to gems, lustrous metal accents and colored glass.

It was 11 in the morning when Sally and I argued over a Deco clock one of our boys fetched. It had a coat of teal paint (from the previous owner no doubt), but I knew by touch that the casing was actually walnut, and could be beautiful with restoration.

"It goes in the cabinet," I said.

"It should go with the other clocks," Sally insisted, "If people want a clock, that's where they'll look!"

"No, the period is wrong. It's only vintage." And then just barely!

"You think a buyer will walk out if he sees Art Deco in with the Victorian?"

"He might indeed!"

She was about to say something else when the doorbell tinkled, and we looked over to the customer. Do I even need to say his name? My heart grew wings! He was actually here!! Today he had on a light jacket with the sleeves rolled halfway up the arm, and my heart-wings began to flutter... oh, goodness!

"Hallo!" he called. "Looks like I found the place!"

Sally gave me a pointed look, which meant she recognized him. The look I gave her could have slipped beneath a closed door, dear diary — it warned her that this one was mine, and she'd better not interfere. Then I joined Alastor near the entrance.

"You have!" I told him. "What brings you here, the hardbacks?"

"Yes, and I might look around, if you don't mind."

"Oh. Certainly! I shall be at the desk if you need assistance," I said amiably, and withdrew.

Most prospective buyers like to wander in peace, and the idea is to let them talk themselves into a purchase. Almost none of my items have price tags, only colored labels to which Sally and I refer. Hence, the buyer has nothing to go on but his own attraction to the item in question. I wouldn't have it any other way. Do you love the item on sight? Well, that's all that matters! It doesn't do, to let the cost prejudice people against owning beautiful things.

I pretended to consult a binder as Alastor strolled around the store. Once more, I was assured of his good breeding. Yes, he touched things, but with a feather-light trail of the fingers. Care. Respect. Fear of paying for broken wares, perhaps, but the point remains. (Some customers will fling my goods around like discus-throwers! and I am not afraid to squash them for it.)