“How many more yard sales are you going to drag me to?”
I gave Maggie an unimpressed sidelong look and she grinned.
“Like you don’t love it,” I said.
“I love it,” she said. “I just feel like I should get paid for helping you buy shit for your job.”
I snorted. “About the only help you’ve been,” I said, making a left onto North Hollywood Boulevard, “is finding shoes for yourself.”
This time Maggie snorted and tap-danced her feet in the foot well. She was wearing a pair of yellow heels with silver fixings. No shame there. I turned right down a side street. Maggie pointed up ahead at a yard with furniture and boxes scattered about and yelled, “There.”
I pulled the car over and parked.
“What are you looking for again?” she asked, surveying the lot.
“The director wants an eclectic feel,” I said. “So anything remotely hipster.”
Maggie nodded to me distractedly, and then headed for the shoe box. I chuckled and wandered around, searching for what would work best for the new set. I had a small budget, and no real ideas, so I wandered.
On the periphery of my vision, I was cognizant of the seller keeping a mindful eye on me and Maggie. We were the only two people at the yard sale, but it was early yet. Then a sloth figurine sitting on the edge of the table caught my eye. I went to inspect it, because, I mean, a sloth?
I poked at the figurine for a minute, grinning to myself, before noticing a box underneath the table. White sequins on white fabric in a drab brown box with marker written on the side: Unused Wedding Dress $45. It was underlined three times.
I blinked and reached for it just as a shadow merged with mine at my feet. Pausing, I looked up at the woman. She was beautiful. Gorgeous wavy hair, plump lips, fifties glasses, chic style. She was just my type. I tried not to fidget with my wedding ring. She smiled at me.
“Hey,” I said, straightening away from the box.
She nodded and hovered. For a moment, I thought she might be protecting the box. But she reached down and pulled it out, shoving things over on the table to set it next to the sloth figurine.
I glanced at it, suddenly embarrassed. There was a story here. She hadn’t even made the dress $50. What did that say about it?
“Uh, how much for the sloth?” I asked.
She glanced at it. “Five bucks,” she said.
I considered it, purposely not looking at the box. I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to ask.
“Redecorating?” she said.
“Buying for a play,” I clarified. She nodded. This was L.A., so that made sense.
“Is there a bride in the play?” she asked, gesturing at the boxed tragedy.
“Hmmm? No,” I said. “It was just…sparkly.”
She nodded, but her full lips tightened. “Well, feel free…” she said and walked away.
Maggie walked up behind me.
“What was that about?” she asked.
I shrugged. Maggie picked up the sloth figurine and giggled at it, before putting it back down. A couple walked up with their dog, and the seller walked over to greet them. Waiting until her full attention was on them, I pulled the dress out of the box. Maggie whistled low.
Upon closer inspection, the wedding dress was ivory, not white. A beautiful lace dress, tiered and beaded with spaghetti straps and an empire waist. I glanced at the seller. It would pinch at her tiny waist and enhanced those luscious curves. It would have looked stunning on her.
“Damn,” Maggie said, checking the tag. “It’s too small.”
The conversation with the couple ended, and the seller wandered back towards us. I put the dress back, and picked up the sloth figurine. Smiling at her, I shook it in the air with one hand, and dug into my pocket for money with the other.
“That is going to look awesome in your play,” she said, smiling big. Damn, I nearly melted. Who the hell would walk away from this woman at the altar? Who could be that dumb?
“Let’s hope,” I said, handing the money over.
“You’re buying that thing?” Maggie asked, and laughed. I shoved it at her.
“Make yourself useful and put this in the car,” I said.
Maggie made another face and took the figurine, heading towards the car. The seller had a quizzical expression on watching Maggie saunter away.
“Sister,” I clarified. She chuckled and nodded.
We stood there, and the moment was just turning awkward when she said,
“You seem interested in the dress.”
I opened my mouth to refute that and said instead, “You seem interested in keeping it.”
I cocked my head at her. It was not my place, and she might shut me down right there. But she didn’t.
“I was kinda hoping you would just take it.”
I shook my head, shocked.
“I just can’t comprehend the moron that…” I gestured at her.
She swallowed her lips for a moment and then looked down.
“We walked away from each other,” she said.
“I know it’s not my place, and feel free to tell me to fuck off but,” I picked up the dress. “$45? That’s like a hate crime.”
She smiled wanly and shook her head in denial.
“Funny you should call it that,” she said. I paused, feeling like I stepped in a huge pile of shit.
“We were supposed to get married next year,” she said. “Then the election.” She looked at her ring finger were a faint tan line marked a missing ring. “The day after the election, I woke up feeling like there was a target on my back. And I started looking at countries to move to. She started looking at law schools.”
I inhaled sharply. “You couldn’t figure it out?” I asked, gently.
She shook her head. “She’s ready to fight,” she said. “She’s younger than me and, you know, still wants to save the world. I’m tired of being hated just for existing.”
I couldn’t argue with that. The necklace with the hamsa hung under my shirt, and it felt cold against my skin. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“New Zealand,” she said. “They’ve had equal rights since 2013, and Europe isn’t very safe right now.”
I glanced around, realizing that this wasn’t a yard sale. This was a moving sale. The furniture, the DVD collection, there were boxes of books, shoes, even the sloth figurine. Everything that couldn't fit into a suitcase, everything that wasn’t needed. Including an unused wedding dress.
The car horn honked, and I glanced over my shoulder. Maggie was hanging out the passenger window and waving at me impatiently. I turned back to the seller.
“Maybe you should hold on to this for a while longer,” I said, pointing at the dress.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “There’s no room in my life for it now.”
“It might be that this country surprises you,” I said, desperate. I didn’t know why it was so important to talk her out of this, but it was.
“I can still be denied housing in 28 states here,” she said, “just based on my sexuality.”
“Not in California,” I argued.
“I had a guy at a bar the other day call me a ‘fucking lesbian cunt’,” she said.
“Fuck,” I said, and ran a hand through my hair, defeated. The car honked again, but I ignored it.
“She made the same face before she left,” she said. We stood there, both unhappy. “It’s okay,” she said. It wasn’t, but there weren't any words that were going to fix it either.
I dug into my pocket again, producing thirty-two dollars and offered it to her. It was the rest of my budget for the play. It wasn’t even my money, but it didn’t matter.
“What would you do with it?” she asked.
“I have no idea. Donate it.”
She ran her hands across the lace, fingering the beads.
“No,” she said. “I’ll donate it. I don't want to fight anymore, but at least…at least I won’t be committing a hate crime.”
I winced. “Poor choice of words,” I said.
“I wonder what she’s going to do with her dress,” she said, petting the lace again.
“Saving it,” I said confidently. It would be what my wife would do.
“For another woman?” she said, and tears gathered in her eyes.
“No,” I said. “Because it reminds her of you.”
The tears slid down her face. She only allowed two to escape before she wiped them away in a gesture that was far too practiced, took a deep breath, and smiled bravely. Then she nodded at me. “Good luck with your play.”
“Good luck with your move,” I said.
I walked away and slid into the car.
“Geez, you’re married,” Maggie said.
I shook my head. I fished the hamsa out of my shirt and clutched it. Offering up a small prayer for the seller, I started the car and drove away.
I gave Maggie an unimpressed sidelong look and she grinned.
“Like you don’t love it,” I said.
“I love it,” she said. “I just feel like I should get paid for helping you buy shit for your job.”
I snorted. “About the only help you’ve been,” I said, making a left onto North Hollywood Boulevard, “is finding shoes for yourself.”
This time Maggie snorted and tap-danced her feet in the foot well. She was wearing a pair of yellow heels with silver fixings. No shame there. I turned right down a side street. Maggie pointed up ahead at a yard with furniture and boxes scattered about and yelled, “There.”
I pulled the car over and parked.
“What are you looking for again?” she asked, surveying the lot.
“The director wants an eclectic feel,” I said. “So anything remotely hipster.”
Maggie nodded to me distractedly, and then headed for the shoe box. I chuckled and wandered around, searching for what would work best for the new set. I had a small budget, and no real ideas, so I wandered.
On the periphery of my vision, I was cognizant of the seller keeping a mindful eye on me and Maggie. We were the only two people at the yard sale, but it was early yet. Then a sloth figurine sitting on the edge of the table caught my eye. I went to inspect it, because, I mean, a sloth?
I poked at the figurine for a minute, grinning to myself, before noticing a box underneath the table. White sequins on white fabric in a drab brown box with marker written on the side: Unused Wedding Dress $45. It was underlined three times.
I blinked and reached for it just as a shadow merged with mine at my feet. Pausing, I looked up at the woman. She was beautiful. Gorgeous wavy hair, plump lips, fifties glasses, chic style. She was just my type. I tried not to fidget with my wedding ring. She smiled at me.
“Hey,” I said, straightening away from the box.
She nodded and hovered. For a moment, I thought she might be protecting the box. But she reached down and pulled it out, shoving things over on the table to set it next to the sloth figurine.
I glanced at it, suddenly embarrassed. There was a story here. She hadn’t even made the dress $50. What did that say about it?
“Uh, how much for the sloth?” I asked.
She glanced at it. “Five bucks,” she said.
I considered it, purposely not looking at the box. I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to ask.
“Redecorating?” she said.
“Buying for a play,” I clarified. She nodded. This was L.A., so that made sense.
“Is there a bride in the play?” she asked, gesturing at the boxed tragedy.
“Hmmm? No,” I said. “It was just…sparkly.”
She nodded, but her full lips tightened. “Well, feel free…” she said and walked away.
Maggie walked up behind me.
“What was that about?” she asked.
I shrugged. Maggie picked up the sloth figurine and giggled at it, before putting it back down. A couple walked up with their dog, and the seller walked over to greet them. Waiting until her full attention was on them, I pulled the dress out of the box. Maggie whistled low.
Upon closer inspection, the wedding dress was ivory, not white. A beautiful lace dress, tiered and beaded with spaghetti straps and an empire waist. I glanced at the seller. It would pinch at her tiny waist and enhanced those luscious curves. It would have looked stunning on her.
“Damn,” Maggie said, checking the tag. “It’s too small.”
The conversation with the couple ended, and the seller wandered back towards us. I put the dress back, and picked up the sloth figurine. Smiling at her, I shook it in the air with one hand, and dug into my pocket for money with the other.
“That is going to look awesome in your play,” she said, smiling big. Damn, I nearly melted. Who the hell would walk away from this woman at the altar? Who could be that dumb?
“Let’s hope,” I said, handing the money over.
“You’re buying that thing?” Maggie asked, and laughed. I shoved it at her.
“Make yourself useful and put this in the car,” I said.
Maggie made another face and took the figurine, heading towards the car. The seller had a quizzical expression on watching Maggie saunter away.
“Sister,” I clarified. She chuckled and nodded.
We stood there, and the moment was just turning awkward when she said,
“You seem interested in the dress.”
I opened my mouth to refute that and said instead, “You seem interested in keeping it.”
I cocked my head at her. It was not my place, and she might shut me down right there. But she didn’t.
“I was kinda hoping you would just take it.”
I shook my head, shocked.
“I just can’t comprehend the moron that…” I gestured at her.
She swallowed her lips for a moment and then looked down.
“We walked away from each other,” she said.
“I know it’s not my place, and feel free to tell me to fuck off but,” I picked up the dress. “$45? That’s like a hate crime.”
She smiled wanly and shook her head in denial.
“Funny you should call it that,” she said. I paused, feeling like I stepped in a huge pile of shit.
“We were supposed to get married next year,” she said. “Then the election.” She looked at her ring finger were a faint tan line marked a missing ring. “The day after the election, I woke up feeling like there was a target on my back. And I started looking at countries to move to. She started looking at law schools.”
I inhaled sharply. “You couldn’t figure it out?” I asked, gently.
She shook her head. “She’s ready to fight,” she said. “She’s younger than me and, you know, still wants to save the world. I’m tired of being hated just for existing.”
I couldn’t argue with that. The necklace with the hamsa hung under my shirt, and it felt cold against my skin. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“New Zealand,” she said. “They’ve had equal rights since 2013, and Europe isn’t very safe right now.”
I glanced around, realizing that this wasn’t a yard sale. This was a moving sale. The furniture, the DVD collection, there were boxes of books, shoes, even the sloth figurine. Everything that couldn't fit into a suitcase, everything that wasn’t needed. Including an unused wedding dress.
The car horn honked, and I glanced over my shoulder. Maggie was hanging out the passenger window and waving at me impatiently. I turned back to the seller.
“Maybe you should hold on to this for a while longer,” I said, pointing at the dress.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “There’s no room in my life for it now.”
“It might be that this country surprises you,” I said, desperate. I didn’t know why it was so important to talk her out of this, but it was.
“I can still be denied housing in 28 states here,” she said, “just based on my sexuality.”
“Not in California,” I argued.
“I had a guy at a bar the other day call me a ‘fucking lesbian cunt’,” she said.
“Fuck,” I said, and ran a hand through my hair, defeated. The car honked again, but I ignored it.
“She made the same face before she left,” she said. We stood there, both unhappy. “It’s okay,” she said. It wasn’t, but there weren't any words that were going to fix it either.
I dug into my pocket again, producing thirty-two dollars and offered it to her. It was the rest of my budget for the play. It wasn’t even my money, but it didn’t matter.
“What would you do with it?” she asked.
“I have no idea. Donate it.”
She ran her hands across the lace, fingering the beads.
“No,” she said. “I’ll donate it. I don't want to fight anymore, but at least…at least I won’t be committing a hate crime.”
I winced. “Poor choice of words,” I said.
“I wonder what she’s going to do with her dress,” she said, petting the lace again.
“Saving it,” I said confidently. It would be what my wife would do.
“For another woman?” she said, and tears gathered in her eyes.
“No,” I said. “Because it reminds her of you.”
The tears slid down her face. She only allowed two to escape before she wiped them away in a gesture that was far too practiced, took a deep breath, and smiled bravely. Then she nodded at me. “Good luck with your play.”
“Good luck with your move,” I said.
I walked away and slid into the car.
“Geez, you’re married,” Maggie said.
I shook my head. I fished the hamsa out of my shirt and clutched it. Offering up a small prayer for the seller, I started the car and drove away.
Kitty Shields lives in Philadelphia, where she writes to try and overcome the fact that she was born a middle child with large feet, freckles, and a tendency to daydream. In her spare time, she binds books, takes really bad photos, and tries to avoid the death traps her cat is constantly setting for her. She has been published in The After Happy Hour Review, Furious Gazelle, and Sick Lit Magazine among others. You can find her on Twitter, Instagram, or here.
