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Lady of the Roses
“Good luck,” the man said.
It may have been insanity that made Wes buy the tarnished lamp from the thick-veined hands of an old man. The man’s eyes gleamed a watery blue in a weathered face. Wes felt a pang of pity as he observed the dark circles underneath those eyes that had probably once been lively and bright.
“Please,” the man said, urgent, the lamp cradled in his hands, “please take her. I don’t want her anymore. She’s just given me misery.”
Wes had thought nothing strange of the man calling the lamp a ‘she.’ After all, didn’t men refer to their boats and cars the same way? He eyed the blackened silver warily, and he could see engraved lines of flowers and vines along the belly of the lamp.
“How much do you want?” he asked.
“I’ll take whatever you give me,” the man replied, so fast that Wes was surprised the man didn’t just toss it at him and flee.
“How about twenty-five dollars?”
And then the man’s eyes wrinkled, a grateful smile erupting and replacing some of the strain. “Yes, yes, gladly, thank you, thank you.”
The man then set the lamp down, and Wes took cash out of the drawer without even bothering to write up the exchange. He’d just replace the money from his own wallet because Max would probably just yell…
