Remembering Autumn

Chapter One

Cricket Brown enjoyed spending his summer afternoons working in the stuffy supermarket of town. He had grown accustomed to the chirping sound of the bell as people walked in, the greetings, and the crinkling of the bills and coins.  It was the time of the day when inspiration usually appeared, and he was glad to often walk home with the start of a song written on the back of receipts.

Today he was sitting in a far corner of the booth, letting Bell attend the clients for them both. She was organizing the packets of gum by flavors; first the strawberry, followed by the mint. Meanwhile, Cricket concentrated on writing the first verse to a song. He was biting the end of his pen, one he'd found in the shop and claimed. His fingers were drumming a beat on the desk.

"I need a smoke," declared Bell. Strands of blonde hair obscured her pretty face as she crouched down to retrieve a hidden pack.

"How long has it been since the last one?" Cricket asked her.

"Two hours." She lightened it, and blew out a puff of smoke in his direction. "I never get the chance to finish them."

"Weren't you going to quit?"

"Quitting isn't something immediate. I need to grow to the idea."

Cricket traced a doodled on the paper, "It's taking you a long time."

She smiled, or at least Cricket believed she did. It was the fleeting illusion between a frown and a smile: quick, immediate, and rare. "It's only an idea," she sucked in a long puff of smoke. "Ideas are timeless."

Cricket brushed his dark messy hair out of his eyes and stared at his hands. Bell followed his gaze and bristled. "You should wash them. The ink covering them looks like a second skin."

She was right off course. Cricket's hands were covered with small words. They were etched in ink inside his fingers and over his palms. Each word represented a vestige of inspiration. He had long forgotten what it was like to have clean hands.

"I can't wash them, Bell. The writing would disappear."

Raising the cigarette to her lips she rolled her eyes at him, "You'll come up with new things Cricket. That's what you do best."

A stranger walked up to the cashier then. To Cricket, the young male fit into the stranger description. He was handsome and cheerful enough to be a stranger.

The stranger smiled at Bell as she placed his purchase into a bag. Cricket found customers often steal glances at Bell Smith. It had something to do with her heart-shaped lips and strawberry-blonde sausage curls.

"Thank you, Love," smiled the stranger. He paid, and walked away.

His eyes focused on the leaving customer. "Love?"

Bell smiled and said, "Don't ask." In a way that left you wanting to do just that.

They worked in a companionable silence. There wasn't much commotion in the shop, being the first day of summer holidays most people sat on their porches, enjoying the warm rays of sun. Those who visited the shop searched for whatever little things they needed for the start of summer.

"Remind me again," said Bell, cutting through the silence, "why am I spending my afternoons working at Al's filthy supermarket?"

Cricket grinned at her tone of voice and motioned with his hand to the cigarette she still hadn't finished, "How else will you afford to buy your cancer sticks?"

Peeved, she slumped back on her chair, and burrowed her face inside a magazine. Just then, the bells hanging above the door chimed once more, indicating the arrival of another customer.