At least, not up to this particular point in my life.
“You’ve got some nerve, lady,” the man told me, every word choked with fury. Spittle actually flew from his lips, sailing past my face (thankfully) and landing (unthankfully) on my once-pristine glass cabinet top. At this rate, I’d be Windexing for the rest of the morning. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I kept my voice even, my features composed. “I’m Gwendolyn Goode, the owner of this store. But I’m guessing you know that already, judging by the scene you’re causing. Based on the alarming shade of eggplant you’re beginning to turn, I’ll take another wild leap that I’ve done something to offend you.”
“Don’t play dumb!” He leaned farther across the counter, until his pudgy belly was pressed right up against the glass and his face was mere inches from mine. I held my ground, even as he hissed, “You know exactly what you did, bitch.”
Again with thebitchbusiness. Jeeze, could he at least come up with a new insult? This was getting repetitive.
Distantly, I heard the sound of bells ringing as the front door of the shop opened and closed again — an accompaniment to fleeing customers, no doubt. I didn’t blame them. This unfolding unpleasantness didn’t really jive with the chill vibes my decor promised.
Not everyone was fleeing, though. Behind the man I could sense a gathering crowd of curious onlookers drawn in by the drama, pretending to browse books on the shelves closest to the stairs. I’d bet my last dollar that Hetti was amongst them, leaving our espresso bar unmanned, but I did not glance over to check for her colorful hair in the crush. I did not shift my focus from the angry man’s face. Nor did I raise my voice above the most congenial of pitches as I set down the crystal I belatedly realized I was still holding and clasped my hands together in front of me with a placidness that seemed to piss him off immeasurably.
“The thing is, sir, I can’t recall ever, not even once, seeing you before,” I informed him. “Nor can I recall dinging your car with my door or stealing a package off your front porch or cutting you in the grocery store line or spitting gum in what little hair you’ve got left on your head.” I allowed my eyes to drift up to his bald spot for a brief interlude before continuing. “As far as I know, my conscience is clear, my karma is good. According to my quasi-psychic barista, even my damn chakras are balanced. So, you’re going to have to find some words to explain yourself. Preferably ones that don’t involve any more profanity. Because while I personally am not offended by you calling me afucking bitch, repeatedly, at the top of your voice…” My eyes narrowed a shade and my tone cooled significantly. “I’d hate for anyone watching to get the wrong idea and think you’re actually succeeding in this adorable little show of intimidation you’re putting on here.”
What? I said I was a good-time girl. I never said I was a pushover.
“My wife,” the man gritted out.
“Someone married you?”
Ignoring my barb, he reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a small bottle, and slammed it down on the counter with such vigor, I was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “You sold herthis!”
For a moment, we both stared at the bottle. I knew immediately that he wasn’t mistaken. It was, in fact, from my shop. From this very section of the shop, in a tall apothecary cabinet just a few steps away.
I tended to stock a little bit of everything, from healing crystals to incense burners to ritualistic ceremonial tools dating back centuries. Glass-doored cabinets held a vast array of bottles. There were tinctures to treat common cuts and scrapes on one shelf. (Surprisingly effective!) Pre-mixed potions to hex a nasty ex on another. (Disappointingly ineffective.) Essential oils and bundled herbs. Vials of strange things like Graveyard Dirt and Eye of Newt and Raven’s Feather and Bone Shard that I would’ve rather hurled myself into the sun than unstopper voluntarily, but nevertheless moved off the shelves and into the hands of eager customers with alarming regularity.
The bottle in question was of this same ilk. On the front, in fine calligraphy, on one of the gorgeous textured labels I had custom-made by a local printer, it saidJILTED JUICE. I knew, if I looked at the back, it would instruct in much smaller typeface:To cripple cheating tendencies, apply two drops daily to the undergarments of the unfaithful. Should the occasion to stray ever arise… his staff will not follow suit. [For best results, use at night before bed.]
Understanding dawned swiftly.
“Oh,” I said softly. “That.”
“Yes,” the man returned not-so-softly. “That!”
My eyes sailed up to meet his. For the first time, I noticed they were red-rimmed. Not with anger. More like he’d been up all night or spent the last few hours weeping.
Huh.
“Sir, I’m still not sure how this concerns me.”
“What do you mean?” He tensed visibly. “You sold this to my wife! Do you deny it?”
“No, I don’t deny it.”
“Then you know why I’m here!”
“On the contrary, I have no earthly idea.”
His voice, already shrill, rose to a truly piercing decibel. “You sold my wife this… This…Jilted Juice!” His face reddened further, this time from a hint of embarrassment in addition to the coursing anger. “And now, whenever I go to….”
“Perform?” I supplied sweetly.
“Yes! Perform!” He swallowed hard. “I can’t.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t just stand there saying ‘Oh’, you ruinous whore!” He snapped. At the very least, he’d found a new insult. I was looking on the bight side. “Fix it!”