I even have one couple that just finished up a stunning gothic nursery done in high gloss black furniture, wainscoting, and trim. They added bright orange linens and walls for an accent and then topped the whole nursery off with raven decor. I can’t wait to hear what they name the baby when it is born. My money's on Annabelle Lee for a girl or Edgar for a boy.
My stomach growls loudly again, pulling me from my daydreams. I think about heading back to the small kitchen to reheat my crab cake sandwich, leftover from the darling little gluten-free vegan café down the street. I cannot figure out how they make a vegan crab cake, but it is consistently incredible. That café ruins my low-carb ambitions on a regular basis.
I look down at my curvy body and poke my belly, denting in the stubborn roundness that never seems to want to leave. At 30, I have mostly accepted myself, or so I say in random affirmations when the mood strikes, but still, I always feel like I need to lose ten, or thirty, pounds.
I’d settle for being a medium, not even a small, just a nice, run-of-the-mill medium, I think to myself, not for the first time.
I have never understood this body. It has delicate arms and shapely legs but the most stubborn belly. And that is on top of my two different colored eyes. In my affirmations, I tell myself I am a Botticelli painting, like the “Birth of Venus” in all her voluptuous glory.
But society always sneaks back into my mind, reminding me I am most definitely not a small or a medium, but a large or even extra-large. What a stupid sizing system, anyway! And a tiny piece of me wonders if that is part of what keeps holding me back from falling in love. Both my size and my complete acceptance of myself.
At least shoes don’t make me feel bad about my body, so I’ve amassed quite the collection. Today, I am rocking knee-high platform Doc Martens paired with bright green and black striped tights and a zombie nurse tank dress—vintage Hot Topic.
My weight may fluctuate, but my shoe collection is a constant comfort. My love of fashion is one of the many reasons I transitioned from my previous life as a nurse. I was tired of having to look a certain way when I wanted to wear wild shoes and zombie dresses and embrace my inner darkness.
I miss helping people as a nurse, though I guess I still help people, just differently. And my nursing education is an advantage in my current role, helping me keep an eye out for fakes and reproductions with my knowledge of anatomy. But I never could have worn these shoes to the hospital and risked ruining them.
Being strange and unusual my whole life, nursing was not a good match for my free-spirited nature. Rather, it demands a high level of conformity. As a child, I had enough of that shoved down my throat to last a lifetime. I didn’t leave just for the surface conformity; it ran much deeper.
I was successful in school because I am smart and determined. But college hadn’t prepared me for reality after graduation, where I soon realized it was not the lifelong job for me. I had no time for the politics and catty environment I discovered myself in.
The only reason I had even become a nurse was it was one of the two careers my father had recognized as suitable for a woman who failed to secure a position as a wife and mother—teacher or nurse. I had chosen nursing over a room full of screaming children.
In hindsight, I could have skipped being a nurse, left my small town, somehow eked out an existence and made my own choices. It’s easy to think women can just up and leave if they find themselves somewhere they don’t want to be. But there are so many reasons that often can’t happen.
For me, I had nothing and no one else to turn to for support. So, I played the role of the dutiful daughter, knowing as soon as I finished college, I could get the hell out of there.
But much to my father’s never-ending disappointment in me, for many, many reasons, I left a supremely acceptable career for a woman in my town and instead pursued my passion, Grimm. Needless to say, owning an oddities shop is so far out of the realm of acceptance I might as well have declared myself the Queen of England.
I’d love a good tiara. Would go fabulously with these boots, I think, as I prop my tall Docs up on the counter to admire them more closely. Playfully wiggling my feet side to side as I contemplate my life’s decisions and whether or not I could really pull off a tiara, I promptly fall backward off the stool.
I lay on the floor for a minute, stunned, taking inventory of any damage I may have sustained in my fall. Luckily, I missed Van Helsing and the vintage anatomy charts that hang behind the counter, instead, landing on the anti-fatigue mat I have for standing at the register.
“What a damn day!” I groan.
I look up at Van Helsing from my place on the ground to see him staring back at me with sightless eyes. I wish I had Jo here with me already. Although, chaos magnet that she is, I probably would have pulled out a cord when I fell and somehow caught the building on fire only for her to fall in love with a firefighter.
I roll to my side and cautiously come to a sitting position while scolding myself for my daydreaming that caused the fall. Grabbing the rungs of the stool, I haul myself up, graceful as ever.
Lucifer takes that moment to jump down from his perch and stalk over to me. He sits down and studies me judgmentally, clearly wondering why on earth I disturbed his royal slumber. I can almost see his eyebrow raised in disdain. For as much as he dislikes me, I’m not quite sure why he sticks around.
I feel a little dizzy. The morning’s events and low blood sugar coalescing into mild disorientation. No longer able to put off eating, I make my way back to my small kitchen to reheat my leftover crab cake.
I fill Lucifer’s dish with exorbitantly expensive stinky wet food, the only cat food he will eat. I assume he eats mice or something when he disappears from time to time, but here at home, only the best for his majesty.
I grab a seltzer while I wait for the toaster oven, the fizz dancing on my tongue and tickling my nose, clearing some of the fog from my fall. Sussing out the mystery of the disembodied voice from this morning occupies my mind until, at last, the ding of the oven informs me lunch is ready. I pick up my lunch and drink, heading back out to the shop.
Drink and paper plate in hand, I go to sit down when the same exotic voice from earlier again startles me. I whirl around to face the speaker, determined to catch him this time.
“Hello again,” he says with a trace of an accent and a slow cadence. The voice feels ancient, is the only way to describe it. It stirs thoughts of castles, shadowy forests, and leaves in the wind. An image of wolves racing through ancient trees flashes in my mind.
Visceral.
Dark.
Dangerous.
My eyes lift to his amber ones and the hair on my body rises like being too close to a lightning strike. I can almost smell the petrichor and ozone of an incoming storm.
