Prologue
The Comstock Act of 1873 required that condoms sold in the early 1900s be marketed solely for disease prevention.
Often disguised in decorative or euphemistic tins—like the colorful assortment scattered across the counter in front of me—they were widely made of rubber; latex condoms didn’t fully take over as the love glove of choice until the 1930s.
They were also reusable.
Up to five to ten times when washed well with soap and water in betweenuses, if the website I’m on can be trusted.
This information alone wouldn’t normally faze me—working in an antique store for nearly two decades, I’ve heard and seen a lot weirder. And, as someone who thrives on making sound choices and has spent thirty-four years being overly cautious, I’d usually be thrilled by any invention that resulted in increased odds of safety and predictability. Not in the mood for a baby or venereal disease? Problem solved.
Great news.
Fabulous.
What makes this less than ideal is that on the counter in front of me mixed with the pile of antique condom tins is something that resembles the dried skin of a salmon.
My eyes go from the laptop I’m using for pricing research back to the filet next to the register. The item on my screen is an exact match.
“Good lord,” I mutter. I amnottouching that thing.
With a pencil from an old coffee can, I poke the tip of thereusableitem and slowly drag it toward the opposite edge of the six-foot-long counter nearest the trash can. The tins could go for a few hundred dollars. There’s minimal rusting, the wording is legible, and the colors are still vibrant. They’ll be considered mint, and collectors will pay.
But all the money in the world won’t make me save this condom that probably wrapped around an archaic appendage a century ago.
“Rue?” My mother’s shouted voice echoes down the hall from her office.
“Yeah?” I holler in response, zigzagging the condom through the tins.
“I have pottery this afternoon so I’m leaving early.” She says it like I don’t have her entire schedule saved in my calendar. “We’re doing a horsehair raku firing.”
I’m too focused on the task at hand to worry about her latest creative endeavors. “Sounds fun.”
I skirt the salmon sack around a stack of papers at the same time the bells from the door jingle. Habitually, I pause my movements, lift my gaze over the shelves that separate me from the entrance, then deliver a practiced smile paired with my automatic, “Afternoon. Welcome to Old Vines.”
I’ve called that greeting hundreds of times. Since my parents bought the store when I was sixteen and I started working here, maybe thousands. I recite my greeting, wait for the exchangeof polite smiles that are inevitably smiled, then get back to whatever I’m doing. There’s comfort in the predictability of it all. Other than unexpected items like the condom at hand, there’s a certainty to it all that fills my days with calm.
Only this time, it’s different.
This time, my smile falters at the sight of the man strolling in. His blond hair is short yet disheveled, and he’s wearing a bright pink button-up shirt—completely obnoxious—covered in a pattern I can’t quite make out.Are those ice cream cones?But it’s his face that pulls me in—all angled angles and edged edges with dark eyes. Perfect symmetry sliced with a lopsided grin.
“Afternoon,” he replies.
Over the rows of shelves filled with items from history between us—furniture, clothing, bottles, plates, match cars, and old comics—our eyes meet.
“Afternoon,” I respond, then wince. I already said that.
He clears his throat to poorly hide a laugh. When he says, “Afternoon” once again, his voice carries enough amusement it heats my cheeks and turns the practiced smile on my lips genuine.
I blow my bangs out of my eyes and press the pencil a little harder into the condom, not budging an inch as he begins to stroll the store. He inspects random items as he goes, moving with ease and without a care in the world. He starts to whistle, and I like the sound.
Above the horizon line of the shelves, our eyes keep finding one another’s. He’s so handsome and his shirt is so outrageous and I’ve never felt more rattled by the mere presence of another person.
I force my attention back to the counter, having to remind myself why all these tins are in front of me and what the hell I’m doing with this pencil. I remember the task at hand only to forget it, my eyes wandering all over the store to find him.
At a vintage travel poster for Cuba, he angles his head to thoroughly study it. He crosses his arms over his chest—one of which I now see is covered in tattoos—then leans closer to read the fine print. I detest tattoos and firmly believe that people who get them are ridiculously impulsive and lack foresight. They’ll fade, they’ll stretch, they’ll represent a version of a person who no longer exists.
But on him: perfection.
