ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

01. no sympathy card

ROSELYN'S CRAFTY CORNER is an oasis today as usual.

Small trinkets and gifts are stacked neatly on display tables, pieces of paper set at prices that could rival a two-person dinner from one of those fancy steakhouses downtown with the tea lights and real rose centerpieces.

It's empty but filled with the fragrant mist of vanilla Febreze, a scent that Roselyn herself finds it necessary to spray every other hour despite how many times I've complained about my nostrils slowly disintegrating. She says it helps with online customer reviews—not like we get many of those in the first place.

Ever since sophomore year of high school, I've spent my weeks here, organizing random bits and bobs that middle-aged white women come hunting for like the second coming, pouring over gemstone necklaces and paperweights with tiny colorful flower petals pressed inside.

A card wall that spans an entire side of the building is the most interesting thing in existence to them, decorated jars that can fit absolutely nothing of substance are a miracle cast upon the earth, cutesy stationary sets with polka dots and ribbon (monogrammed, of course) are worth a deal with the devil.

Really, old people never cease to astound me.

"Good morning, Miss Cunningham."

And speaking of old people...

My gaze snaps up from the cash register I'd been messing with instantly, boss peering at me from behind her wide, grandma glasses with a smile.

"Was the new stock supposed to come in today or did I tell Sinclair that we were changing it to Monday?"

I look around the shop without need before leaning forward to speak, voice low. "Is new stock really necessary right now, Roselyn? There's no one in here."

She flicks my forearm with a disapproving tut. "Psh, I don't pay you to tell me how to run my business. Stick to your job description, Cleo."

My hands go up in mock defense at her words, lips quirking as I rattle off all I know. "Half of the delivery's supposed to come in this afternoon on the truck, and the other's supposed to come tomorrow morning." Then before she can butt in, "And, by the way, me and Sinclair already decided we're doing the lifting. It's time you stop picking up on heavy boxes."

The sixty-eight-year-old woman's arm extends, knit-sweater-covered, the sleeve ballooning around her frail wrist as she attempts, in vain, to flex. "Does this look like the arm of a lady who shouldn't be picking up on heavy boxes?"

I blink before deciding on a safe answer, "If I respond, I may lose my job."

She laughs loudly at that, hand coming down with the clink of a wedding band before taking a step back. "I'm going to run to the post office right quick while we're waiting. Hopefully Sinclair doesn't make it here before I get back."

The woman's foot is halfway out the door before I can even manage to start my response. "You and I both know that man is always late. Take your time!"

She turns to slant two fingers from her eyes to mine through the glass in an 'I'm watching you' motion, likely not even hearing what I'd said, before starting toward her blue minivan outside.

For an old lady she sure is a fast walker.

I sigh, once again back to the quietness of the shop, fiddling first with the rings on my fingers then a couple of piercings. When that gets boring, I decide to rearrange a display, snorting when my gaze lands on the three little pig measuring cup sets spread out over one of the side tables in front of check out.

Michael Bublé seems to be the only thing on the playlist today as usual, my screamo bangers having been permanently blacklisted within seconds the one day Roselyn granted me access to the store's aux.