"Goddamn... sonofabitch... whore..." The expletives continued out of Mr. Crandall's mouth at a steady rate as he picked the carcass of his bookstore. The building had been gutted by flames, soaked by fire crews, and picked over by thieves. There was nothing left. "My life's work... my entire life's work."
He picked through burnt books, hoping for something salvageable. Of course it wasn't all from his bookstore. Some of the junk in the ashes belonged to his tenant, Eva Luna. Just the thought of her made his mouth twist in a sneer. It was her fault. This was all her fault. Who knew what kind of business she ran from her apartment. Something unseemly.
Cracked and melted bottles of medicine were scattered towards where her closet once was, but there was too much of it for just one person. And there was strange equipment, like nothing he'd ever seen before. It was no matter. It would all be cleared out by the following day.
"Have you seen her?" Credo, the young fruit and vegetable seller who manned a stall across the road from the bookstore, stood at the edge of the property, looking through what was once the bookstore's window at Mr. Crandall. He'd left his produce cart unmanned in the Marketplace square. It was early still, just after dawn, and the square was empty enough that he didn't have to worry about being robbed blind.
Mr. Crandall looked up at the young man. "Have I seen her? You mean the whore that used to live here? No, I haven't. I suppose she knows better than to show her face around here." He turned away, pushing over the crumbling skeleton of a bookcase to look beneath, muttering. "Worse mistake I ever made was renting to that girl... let me tell you, she's not getting her security deposit back..."
Credo frowned, twisting the yellow apple he held in his hands, and then looking down at it. Every morning Eva used to buy a yellow apple from him. She always looked so lonely in the mornings, but then she'd see him, and she'd come to get her apple, and she'd smile. He liked to think it was a special smile, but he knew it wasn't. He'd been setting aside a yellow apple for her every day since the fire, the best one he had, expecting her to walk down the alley towards him like she'd done every day for a year. But she never came. She was never going to come. "She wasn't a whore."
"Oh yeah, what do you know about it? You're not the one who had to... had to clean the filth out of the alley every morning!"
"I know she wasn't a whore! She was a good person. You should have some respect for the dead... considering you're likely walking on her grave."
"Walking on her - is that what you think?" Mr. Crandall turned on Credo, glaring at him across the wreckage. "You think she died in this fire? She didn't die in this fire, no one did. No remains here but my bookstore, boy. My entire life's work, you see?" He narrowed his eyes at the farm boy with his little fruit and vegetable stall.
"She ain't dead, boy. She's just hiding from her just deserts. She's just hiding."
He picked through burnt books, hoping for something salvageable. Of course it wasn't all from his bookstore. Some of the junk in the ashes belonged to his tenant, Eva Luna. Just the thought of her made his mouth twist in a sneer. It was her fault. This was all her fault. Who knew what kind of business she ran from her apartment. Something unseemly.
Cracked and melted bottles of medicine were scattered towards where her closet once was, but there was too much of it for just one person. And there was strange equipment, like nothing he'd ever seen before. It was no matter. It would all be cleared out by the following day.
"Have you seen her?" Credo, the young fruit and vegetable seller who manned a stall across the road from the bookstore, stood at the edge of the property, looking through what was once the bookstore's window at Mr. Crandall. He'd left his produce cart unmanned in the Marketplace square. It was early still, just after dawn, and the square was empty enough that he didn't have to worry about being robbed blind.
Mr. Crandall looked up at the young man. "Have I seen her? You mean the whore that used to live here? No, I haven't. I suppose she knows better than to show her face around here." He turned away, pushing over the crumbling skeleton of a bookcase to look beneath, muttering. "Worse mistake I ever made was renting to that girl... let me tell you, she's not getting her security deposit back..."
Credo frowned, twisting the yellow apple he held in his hands, and then looking down at it. Every morning Eva used to buy a yellow apple from him. She always looked so lonely in the mornings, but then she'd see him, and she'd come to get her apple, and she'd smile. He liked to think it was a special smile, but he knew it wasn't. He'd been setting aside a yellow apple for her every day since the fire, the best one he had, expecting her to walk down the alley towards him like she'd done every day for a year. But she never came. She was never going to come. "She wasn't a whore."
"Oh yeah, what do you know about it? You're not the one who had to... had to clean the filth out of the alley every morning!"
"I know she wasn't a whore! She was a good person. You should have some respect for the dead... considering you're likely walking on her grave."
"Walking on her - is that what you think?" Mr. Crandall turned on Credo, glaring at him across the wreckage. "You think she died in this fire? She didn't die in this fire, no one did. No remains here but my bookstore, boy. My entire life's work, you see?" He narrowed his eyes at the farm boy with his little fruit and vegetable stall.
"She ain't dead, boy. She's just hiding from her just deserts. She's just hiding."