Page 2 of For the Love of Art

The chime over the door of the shop went off. I looked up to see an older gentleman walking in. I took a breath before I plastered my cheese-shop-smile on my face.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“Good morning–” He squinted as he looked at my chest. I was about to make a comment when I remembered my name tag was there. “Eez-la!” He smiled, saying my name incorrectly with a high level of pride.

I spent my whole life correcting people—it was pronounced “eye-la”—but this morning, I didn’t have the energy. “Is there anything I can help you with?” I repeated my earlier question instead.

“Yes, I’m looking for a very specific cheese.”

I nodded, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. He just stared at me, blinking through his thick glasses and running his tongue back and forth over his lower lip.

“Well, lucky for you, this is a cheese shop,” I finally said, trying to break the incredibly uncomfortable eye contact.

“It is!” He laughed heartily. “Well, I’m looking for a Danish blue cheese. It’s very creamy with that bold blue cheese taste,” he explained. “I have a beautiful Sauvignon Blanc I’d like to pair with it.”

“Oh, darn. We sold out of that yesterday.” Saying this told me I’d been working here too long. I didn’t like that I could recognize cheese from people’s descriptions. “We have an order coming in next week, though.”

The man pursed his lips.

“I suppose I can wait to open the wine,” he finally said. “I mean, I was hoping for a special night with my wife, if you know what I mean.” He gave me a wink, and I wished I didn’t know.

I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen.

“Can I take your name and number?”

I patiently took his information, listening to a story I didn’t need to hear about him and his wife the last time they had this particular cheese together. I let out a breath when he finally left the shop.

I turned my attention back to the sample tray, wondering if lobotomies were still being practiced.

Ring!

No.

No, no, no.

I slowly looked up, and a wave of relief washed over me when I saw the bright red plastic glasses that looked amazing against the dark skin of my best friend, Lianne.

“Hey, girl,” she said as she grabbed her coiled hair and pulled it back with an elastic.

“Be glad you’re late.” I threw an apron at her. “I just heard so much about someone’s sex life that I might as well have been reading an erotica novel.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“It’s not funny,” I whined.

“Not for you,” she retorted. “I’m here now.”

“I’m supposed to tell you you’re on Frankie’s shit list.”

“Is that so?” Lianne cocked an eyebrow. “Good luck to him.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Here’s your daily reminder to never buy into a business with your friend.”

We both laughed. I knew she was kidding. Lianne had loved pretty much every second of owning this place, and I would forever be grateful to her and Frankie for letting me find my footing again here.

“Why are you so late?”