The lift doors slid open with a soft ding, and a woman stepped out. As she brushed past me, a wave of scent followed — earthy, laced with camphor, incense sticks, and something deeply traditional. For a second, I
Loretta Jean had never liked the word “divorced.” It sounded like a stain that wouldn’t wash out, the kind of label folks whisper about when they see you coming down
I didn’t see it coming. The pawn shop smelled like old carpet and metal, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I wandered the aisles, looking around at everything, when my eyes landed on it.
I have always been an envious person, it’s actually the first thing that I noticed about myself ever since I was a kid. However, I never really showed that side of me to anyone. Not even in a joking manner.