by Tim VanSant
“Here’s your soup, ma’am,” Alphonse placed the steaming bowl on the table. “Careful, it’s piping hot.”
“Thank you,” Madeline stirred the hot liquid. “This is your own creation you said?”
“Oh yes. And very special. One of the ingredients is very hard to come by. This is only the third time I’ve been able to make it.”
Third time. She turned her gaze from Alphonse’s inscrutable smile to the wall behind him where the diner specials were neatly hand-lettered in colored chalk. In cheery, yellow script she read:
Soup du jour: larmes de joie
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The Sweet Shoppe
My eyes glazed over (if you’ll pardon the pun) as I gazed through the window at the myriad confections in the Sweet Shoppe. I don’t understand how it was that I never noticed the place before. I’d been walking these streets for weeks, looking for work. No one had “Help Wanted” signs up, but I would go in and ask anyway. And so it was that even though I know nothing about making candies, I entered the Sweet Shoppe with hope in my heart. After all, they must need help with cleaning up I reasoned, and I can do that.
The proprietor was an older gentleman with a healthy mane of hair and bushy mustache, all shockingly white. I introduced myself and he greeted me kindly, but he ignored my inquiry as to the possibility of employment. Instead he began wandering around the shoppe pointing to his creations and muttering the most extraordinary things.
He straightened a box of taffy. “Bobby pulled his sister’s hair,” he said softly. “Jimmy pulled a puppy’s tail. And Sally loosed the ribbon from Betsy’s braids on the way to school.” At least I think that’s what he said.
He tapped the side of a jar of gumballs. (I would almost swear they turned to follow his finger tip.) “Jacob took a dollar from his mother’s purse. Mary read Lucy’s diary to Michelle and Cindy and Ben.” Could I possibly have heard that right?
He turned his attention to whips of licorice hanging freely over the counter. “My dog ate my homework. You look great! Of course I’ll respect you in the morning.” Now he just seemed to be babbling.
He rearranged a tray full of bon-bons. “Stolen boyfriends. Cheating spouses. Broken marriages.” He chuckled. Then with a soft cloth he began wiping the glass front of a tall case full of cakes. “Old man Martin.” He nearly sang with delight. “Every single one of them.”
I didn’t understand. Finally, he turned to me. “The sweetness has to come from somewhere,” he sighed. “But I’m getting too old. Would you care to apprentice? I can teach you. Or shall I just….”
Horrified, I reteated quickly. Once on the street though I hesitated and looked back. I thought I saw the old man with a flask of syrup in hand. But then the storefront was vacant and my morning a fuzzy memory. I continued walking. Hopeless.
~~~
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About the author: Tim VanSant is a technician and rogue poet in academician's clothing. He thinks too much and sometimes he writes what he thinks. He has a face made for radio, a voice made for print, and a blog suitable for lining your NeoPet’s cage.
Connect with Tim online:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tim.vansant.writes
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TimVanSant
otoh blog: https://www.timvansant.com/otoh/
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