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Part 6-19: Offer
“You want to buy my appliances?” I say, confused.
“And all this,” she says, swirling her hands around at nothing in particular.
“My shop? Bisque by Bisk?”
“Well I’d change that obviously.”
“Hey! What’s wrong with it?”
“My name’s not Bisk.” She sits back down and levels her gaze at me.
“Are you being serious right now?” A strange feeling is brewing somewhere in my gut. I am pretty damn sure she is actually being serious and it is scaring me.
“You’ll be out of business in sixteen to eighteen weeks at this pace, based on the commercial rent on this block. Gary will affect that range by up to point three percent in either direction depending on the consistency of his patronage.”
*He raises his spoon in recognition, never taking his eyes off his crosswords. *
“I’ve done the math, I know,” I say. “I mean on the rent, not– not Gary. Look, but, look, I just have to…”
I pat around my jean pockets, looking for my notebook, which is dumb because I never keep it in my pockets. It won’t even fit. I whip around in my seat, hoping to spot it somewhere near the counter. Not there.
I whip back, now angry for some reason. “Why do you want to buy my shop?” I say, perhaps a little too loud.
She tilts her head, and says, “I want to own a soup shop!”
“Then start your own. If you’ve got money to buy one why not just do it yourself?”
She appears to consider it. “We would be soup rivals. A battlefield of broth. Me leaning out my window and glaring across the street, shaking my fist. ‘Oh that accursed Alena, but just wait ’til she slurps my latest concoction. Buwahaha.’ And on and on, and such.”
“Why would you open up across the street?”
“Something with roots in it. That’d be my secret weapon. Can you make any good root soups?”
“Sure, winter root is—” I stop and put my head in my hands. After a moment I say, “Okay. But why do you want to own my soup shop?”
“Like I said, I like it. Like I also said, I am here to represent the interests of lobsters.”
“Were you a lobster in a previous life or something?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, you can’t have my shop.”
“You didn’t even hear my offer. It’s unreasonable, and in your favour!”
“I don’t care. It’s mine.”
Deluxe leans forward, resting one cheek on her tiny fist. “If it weren’t yours I wouldn’t be making the offer to you.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I opt to begin a staring contest instead. Something my old man has taught me: sometimes the best choice of words are no words at all. A tactic I rarely use, but I am running out of patience, say nothing of the mental fortitude required to understand the conversation.
To my complete lack of surprise, she is good at staring. I am allowing blinks in this contest, and am determined to sit there until she says something that makes sense. Or until a customer comes along.
It gets real quiet, and I can hear the soup bubbling and Gary’s pen scratching away. The little shop’s quirks and smudges come into focus. The lights buzz and the outside word murmurs, muffled through my hand-painted windows.
We sit this way for what must be a good minute, though it feels like twenty. Finally, she sits up straight and says, “So what are you going to do in sixteen to eighteen weeks then?”
“I have a whole list of things in my notebook, alright?”
“You’re going to save your business with puns?”
“Deluxe, this is both figuratively and literally none of your business.”
“I know, that’s the problem,” she says, wide-eyed and wringing her hands.
I try a different angle. “So what is it with you and these lobsters anyway? Like, I get you don’t eat them or whatever. But seriously, what’s up?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you won’t sell your shop.”
This sounds fair, so I do.
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