Antiques and New Arrivals

Flash Fiction

Sheila wandered the yard sale, roasting in her flimsy tank top and light summer skirt.

The young woman in the lawn chair, at least eight months pregnant unless she was hauling triplets, must be miserable.

Sheila picked up some candle holders, put them down almost immediately.

There were some classic rock records Tomas might like, but Sheila had other things on her mind.

She turned to the pregnant woman.

“Why don’t you go in the house and cool off sweetheart?”

The woman forced a polite smile.

“No A/C in there, just a few fans. Besides, no one else to watch our yard sale. Thank you for your concern, though.”

“The table over there,” Sheila said, “you have a forty dollar price tag on it.”

“It was my husband’s aunt’s,” the woman said. “He knows more about it than I do, but he had to pick up a job delivering pizza for Finazzo’s.”

The woman pointed at her belly. “No insurance.”

Sheila’s heart sank a little, mostly for herself.

The pregnant woman scanned Sheila’s face. Sheila felt it.

“If you want it I’ll give it to you for thirty,” the woman said, groaning to a standing position.

Sheila tried to motion for her to remain seated, but it was too late.

She looked at the table, and then the now-standing pregnant woman.

“Can I give you a piece of advice, dear?”

“That’s very sweet of you, ma’am, but I’ve gotten so much advice over the last nine months, and some of it contradicts each other. I’m just hot and stressed and ready to drop this baby.”

Sheila smiled. 

She’d have to be honest with Tomas, and no records were going to make up for how angry he’d be, at least initially.

Sheila gently grasped the woman’s elbow. “The advice isn’t about your pregnancy, darling, Follow me.”

She helped the woman walk toward the end table.

“I don’t think I should go any lower than thirty dollars, ma’am.”

“I don’t think you should either, young lady.”

Sheila crouched by the table and pointed.

Lowering her voice she said “Do you see this design here, the letter U interlocking with the M?

The pregnant woman nodded.

Sheila ever so gently peeled the cellophane tape that held the price tag to the top of the table and wadded up the price tag.

The pregnant woman stared, shifted her weight.

“This is an original Umberto Martimba cherrywood cocktail table. It’s worth about four thousand dollars.”

The woman teared up and trembled.

“Do you want to buy it?”

“I was gonna sprint out of here with it at forty dollars, but I just couldn’t do that to you, and I really can’t afford it at what it’s worth. But I promise if you list it online you’ll find a buyer for it.

The woman began to cry. 

“I can’t believe I almost sold it for thirty dollars!”

Sheila briefly embraced the woman, their sweaty skin sticking together.

The woman lowered her head to Sheila’s shoulder.

“You’ve gotta let me do something to thank you.”

Sheila smiled.

“We live at 119 North Gainsborough. Call your husband and have him bring us a large deep dish vegetarian and some garlic bread.”

She paused. “I’m serious. And we’re really good tippers.”

Tomas, Sheila thought, even full of pizza, was still going to be furious with her.

***

Photo by Chris Benson on Unsplash