Page of Swords [Reversed]

The Market—MORNING

I am a passenger in car a dark haired woman is driving, it is late at night and we are stopped a police roadblock. They flag into the parking lot of the Market. She is loud and points out her drunkenness and also the empty beer-bottles in the car. She doesn’t actually seem drunk, so I am not sure what her strategy is. Why turn yourself into the police?

No matter.

I am excused from the scene by the cops and enter the store with a loud crowd headed inside.

The stock boys are playing football inside, and the shoppers are afraid of getting trampled.

The raven haired woman enters with a loud friend in tow. He makes a scene. Shoves a stock boy out of his way. With a sigh, I realize she is Andrea. A veiled Andrea. The friend, of course is Spike. Spike and Andrea. Time to get away.

Someone goes out for a pass and I am caught between him and a stack of merchandise on a wooden palette. I am smashed between them.

“Frank!” yells a redheaded customer service rep at me as I pass, “Long time no see. What’s that?” She looks familiar. She sneers and points to the small rodent nesting in my pocket.

“Oh, its one of those gray mouse things.”

“A stoat,” I mutter, then to myself, “You ought to know, it’s one of yours. I bought it here.”

At least I must have. I don’t remember. But where else would I get it. I head towards the pet department for answers. As I go, I pull the stoat out and feed him some pellets from my hand. He eats greedily as I look at the tropical fish, and then begins to vomit. I decide to get a box for him.

Meanwhile, I have to set him on the floor. A yellow lab mix with a dirty coat wanders the department unsupervised, and I occasionally pet him and say “Good-boy!” As he eyes my stoat with no more than a passing curiosity, I head back to customer service, where I ask a pair of sarcastic teens manning the window for a box.

“Eh, Right there.” One sneers indicating a pile of small boxes.

“Yes, I see them. I need a pet box, you know? With air holes? Never mind.”

I paw through the cardboard boxes but none are large enough. I pick one that is big enough to fit the stoat, though not big enough to let him move around.

“Forget it,” I shrug, “It’ll have to do.” The teens have offered no more help, and after all, the nauseous rodent was not going back into my pocket.