The Postscript

Edgar's picture
The Postscript

I glanced up as the bells rang to herald new customers walking into the used clothing store. I was looking for a pair of warm dress pants. Visiting my parents in Minnesota, I had forgotten entirely about the possibility of extreme cold and the idea of going out that night in tights and a skirt seemed preposterous.

Luckily, I found a like-new pair of black jeans with just a little sparkle on the pocket for a good price. I was wandering around the store with these jeans in my hand—just in case I saw something else that I might need—while I waited for the line at the check-out counter to get a little shorter. Maybe I could find a silver jacket, I thought, that would look nice on a cold winter night.

A woman and man had parked their pick-up outside and come into the store. The woman marched in a determined fashion to a rack in the middle of the store. She was a heavyset woman and it looked as if she had located this rack on a previous visit. She approached with a grim determination.




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