A Winter's Tale

Pleather and Parked

Pleather & Parked

Mid-Morning, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village

A tap, followed by a louder knock, then several more, roused Abigael's attention from the till. A recent international transplant, she'd quit practicing as a barrister in order to begin fresher pursuits. Particularly those of the pleather, pop-up sort.

What is it? The words flickered across her visage as she strode across the timber floored interior of her cozy-to-her shop space, in the direction of the knocking, and the knocker.

The melanin-hued woman gestured wildly, pointing at Abigael, then at her motorbike, making a giant "X" motion with both rather well-toned arms. "What?" Abigael found herself asking, to be certain, beckoning the woman to meet her in the doorway, opening the front a couple of inches—

"I said," continued the woman crossly as if no time had passed, "you're parked illegally—"

"Nice to meet you too?" Abigael extended her hand, as if on instinct, from her Sussex days. Once a Brit, always a Brit, she mused to herself as the woman stared at her as if she had three heads, then heaved a sigh, meeting her halfway.

"Mel," the woman said, a monosyllable. "My name's Mel—"

"Abigael. A pleasure," she replied—

"And you're still parked illegally—" Mel finished as Abigael fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Right—will remedy that in a jiffy." And so she did, clamoring back to her storefront several minutes later. "Better?"

"Much. So, uh," Mel craned her neck over Abigael's shoulder, staring into the pop-up shop's interior, noticing the myriad black leather-like products. "What brings you here?"

"My pop-up," she laughed in a creamy accented lilt. "I sell greeting cards and other gifts and stationery. All pleather, of course—"

Mel made a face. "Pleather? What's pleather?"

"Only the finest vegan faux leather material available for particular consumer tastes," answered Abigael, thoroughly nonplussed, as she'd received many a question of the same in the past several months or so. First from her fellow barristers, wondering why she'd sacrifice a lucrative career as a defense attorney for something so...wildly different, and from well-meaning distant family, pondering the loss of disposable income.

It's not all about the money, she wanted to say. Fulfillment matters too. A sense of purpose. And all that.

Evening, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village

"...It's a useless space, it's extra—pleather is not a thing—" Mel spoke aloud as she stabbed a morsel of green beans so hard she scratched the underlying porcelain. "Whoops—"

Macy, Maggie, and Harry gave each other knowing glances before meeting her eyes.

"What?" Mel went on. "Tell me I'm wrong—"

"She's a famous barrister—" Harry began, stirring the roast beef stew before paying due attention to the black bean stew he'd made especially for Maggie's vegan-ish tastes.

"—And she's an animal rights activist, and vegan—" Maggie added, taking a spoonful of bean stew to taste. "Wow, Harry, delish!"

"And she annoys you, which means there's something about her..." Macy trailed off as Mel threw her a thinly-veiled look of disgust. "Y'know, you could..." she paused. "Ask her for coffee, since she's new in town? Get to know her?"

Mel snorted. "As if—she probably snarfs alfalfa—I'll keep my medium rare burgers, thanks," as she dumped a heap of stew in a corner of her plate, splattering everyone within a two-foot radius.

"Suit yourself," responded Maggie with a twinkle in her eye. "But I think you should reconsider." She thought of her sister's latest failed dalliance, both parties utterly besotted, with a catastrophic end nobody saw coming. Amnesia. Memories obliterated. A Witness Protection-style outcome.

"It had to happen," Mel spoke softer now, knowing exactly what was on her youngest sister's mind. "I'm ok, I'm more than ok—"

"I know—we know—" Macy chimed in.

"We want you to be happy, Melonie," Harry added.

But I am happy, Mel thought to herself as she peered about the dining table. I'm single. And I can't hurt anyone if I'm unattached and alone.

Next Morning, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village

As if on cue, the tapping began at precisely 9 am on the dot. Mel. She hid the upward curve of her lips as she stepped toward the open door, pleather high-laced boots and all.

"What is it?"

Mel pointed to the fifteen differently-sized signposts, each stacked atop the other, below which was Abigael's motorbike. "You're parked illegally. Again."

No parking except before 5 am on Wednesdays. Two hour parking between 10 am-Noon. Biweekly snow emergency parking. One-hour customer parking.

Abigael sighed and returned to the till. Cash register, in American parlance, but this time, Mel followed her. "Well?" Mel asked.

"Well, what?" Abigael continued examining the paper stubs from the day before, checking for discrepancies.

"Aren't you going to re-park it?"

"Why?"

"So, uh, you don't get towed?"

Abigael laughed aloud. "I'd love to see them try. Besides, nothing's illegal about parking here on a Tuesday morning before 10 am without snow when one is decidedly not a customer—"

"But what if it suddenly starts snowing? Like, in the next several minutes?" Mel crept closer despite her better judgment, unable to figure out why she was so hung up on this issue. Probably because she had a certain interest in decorum and maintaining the peace. Of course, that must be it.

"Then I'll move my motorbike," Abigael calmly replied, her visage now inches away from Mel's own, as the latter felt a certain indeterminate spark within the air, a frisson that was not entirely unrequited, based on the sudden dilation of Abigael's pupils, coupled with a surprisingly smoldering expression. "Satisfied?"

Mel tore herself away from the accented woman before her. "Don't even—"

"Suit yourself!" Abigael called out to Mel's departing figure, storming out, slouched against the frigid November wind, hastening back to her own coffee shop down the way.