It’d been a long day doing random things around Wilton. First it was failing to hike a trail that was blocked off, then it was visiting a nearby cemetery, then it was getting lost trying to find tiny free libraries and having a lively discussion with a vibrant hippie woman and now… now I was in the center of the town at their absolutely tiny but truly adorable park after having deposited a book in their little free library.
Since I was here anyway I might as well look around. There seemed to be two antique stores, a chocolatier, and a cupcake shop. Today was not really the day for sweets but why not look at the antique stores? My mother peered into the Winding River Antiques window which looked super dark.
“I don’t know if they’re open.”
Someone inside waved her in. See, if you’re going to be all creepy about it you’re going to gain someone’s attention. So we walked in. It was a small antique shop, the sort of thing you’d expect on a main street of a small town. Everything was well organized and displayed. But the two shop keeps… oooh boooy. They were throwing off some fiercely negative vibes. I think they had regretted letting us in. My mother with her doddering social inequities and myself with blazing orange hair drenched in sweat from the heat and looking like death had rolled over. The orange hair throws people. In small towns like this it causes a lot of people, and let’s be honest a lot of old men people, to instantaneously distrust and hate me. It’s fine. I find this sort of hilarious because I am the least likely person to cause an actual fuss.
Still they both watched us until my skin started burning from the searing eye contact. I took a few photos and they acted like I was trying to case the place. When my mother took a few photos herself that was apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back because one growled at her to stop taking photos. Like OK dude, was just trying to give you some exposure but if you don’t want that it’s fine by me. I’ll be just as happy to write up how ungrateful you are for customers…
And so we shuffled out without buying (or stealing!) anything. (Not to be bitchy but there wasn’t anything there worth stealing in the first place. It was all very common fare.) My mother was so put off by this experience that we didn’t go into the other antique store which I presume was probably a lot friendlier.
