wish I knew what you were looking for
The air in the building was musty - it was always musty. It had been that way since he had taken over the rundown little shop and he had a feeling it would be that way after he had left it. It seemed to be a part of the very walls, something that had permeated into every crack and corner of the building until it had become part of the building’s very soul. It probably wasn't helped by the incense that he insisted on burning every hour that the shop was open.
It, like just about everything else in his life, was a relic of the old country and something handed down from his grandfather. The man had been a true clairvoyant and knew all the tips and tricks. He had passed all of that on when Novel had proven to have the same gifts, as well as all of those tips and tricks. Incense helped one see clearly, he had said. And it also helped convince people that they must be in a place of true seeing. Novel supposed it added a sense of authenticity at least, considering that he did have more customers than he could have thought he would have.
Especially….
His eyes trailed over one of the many stands of jewelry that were scattered around the store. Mrs. Davis was standing there as she was always standing there every single Thursday. She knew that he closed on Wednesdays to drive to other towns to look for new things to stock. And so every Thursday she was there bright and early to browse through the new bits of antique jewelry he had brought back with him.
Every week he brought back new things, and every week like clockwork she returned. She was perhaps his most dedicated customer unless one counted Leda. And it made no sense.
He watched Mrs. Davis as she slowly made her selections and then equally slowly meandered her way to the counter. She never haggled. She hardly ever spoke to him, not that he minded. She just handed over the money and walked herself slowly out of his store, sure to return in exactly a week's time.
Novel counted the money out, settling it into the till, and then looked up to make sure that the old woman was far out of sight. A frustrated noise, half growl and half sigh, exploded out of him. "She buys, she leaves. She should not come back. These are full of curses. Every week, she comes back. It makes no sense." It wasn't that he wanted her to die. He didn't, strictly speaking, want anyone to die. It was bad for business, after all; less money and it attracted authorities. It was fine if the old woman wanted to keep coming into his shop and spending money - it was just that she shouldn’t be able to and he hated things that made no sense.
In the midst of his tirade, the bell over the top of the front door of the shop sent off a soft ping. Novel turned his head to the side, his words still ringing around the otherwise quiet shop, and watched as Leda walked in. It wasn’t surprising. She also knew that he restocked the shop with new things on Thursdays and she was his most frequent customer, popping in for a quick tarot reading or discussion of a star chart whenever the whim brought her here. He felt an uncharacteristic embarrassment fill him at the realization that she had probably heard at least the tail end of it, if not half of it.
“Are you complaining about that sweet old lady again?” Leda asked as she breezed further into the shop, heading straight towards the counter. If there was a bit of a sashay to her walk, he told himself quite ardently that he didn’t notice it at all.
"Nothing sweet about her," he grumbled, mostly under his breath, as he finally deposited his money into the till. At least she didn't try to barter. He could appreciate that much. "Why do you defend her so much?"
"Why do you hate her so much?" Leda countered as she stood in front of him at the counter and then casually turned her back to him so she could boost herself up to sit on the edge of the counter.
"I don't. I just simply do not trust her."
"Well, you don't trust anybody."
He stepped from around the counter to the side, until he was level with Leda. It was a common pose for the both of them, at least when he wasn't busy doing a reading for Leda anyway. As he gazed out of the corner of his eye at the younger woman, he caught the hint of shine that reflected off of the locket that he had given her - and he was struck again by how perfect it fit on her.
A small wisp of smoke from the incense burner wafted up, trailing through the air until he waved a hand to dismiss it. He followed up the action by crossing his arms, something that always managed to make him look more intimidating than he actually was. "You grow up where I did, you definitely don't trust others."
“Maybe if you told me, I’d actually know about it.” And he swore, he would swear, that she actually gave him a glance under her eyelashes, that she actually fluttered them at him somewhat. “You’re so secretive.”
“So you’ve said before.”
“And I meant it before, obviously.” There was an eye roll to go along with that statement and Novel snorted. It was all part of his act that he used to help sell his services but there was more to it than that. There were some things that he wanted to forget and didn’t want to bring to this small American town. They were things of the past and if he continued to prod at them like a sore tooth they would never heal, or so he told himself.
Novel shrugged his shoulders and huffed a soft breath through his nose. She was persistent, wasn’t she? Which he admired. “Stories are earned.” And how would he tell her, anyway? He didn’t want pity. More than that, the world he had grown up in was so far removed from this one. You could never compare the two. He didn’t pretend that America was perfect like many of the people who immigrated here and who had been born here, but he certainly could note the stark differences between the world of the soviets and the world of small town America. “And you didn’t come here for that anyways, yes?” He uncrossed his arms at that, stepping back behind the counter. He pulled a deck of tarot cards seemingly from inside of his sleeves - trusty, old and worn. His grandfather had given them to him when he was learning the trade and they had served him well over the years. He allowed himself a small, curling smile as he placed them on the counter, watching as Leda craned her neck back to look at what he was doing before she slid off of the counter to turn and face him.
Novel watched her as she scrutinized him before she finally puffed some of the hair from her eyes in mild irritation. “Well, do the cards have anything to say about you telling me your secrets?”
He let another smile slip through - a common occurrence around her, he had to admit - and put his hand on top of the deck. “Let’s find out, hm?”