Between A Rock and A Hard Place

An Unlikely Encounter

Fuck.

Of course it would rain on your one day out. And after your busiest week of work in ages, too. Was it too much to ask for? All you wanted was a relaxing outing into the local shops, but mother nature had to intervene in your plans. Perhaps it was divine retribution for some crime you'd committed in a past life, that you'd never be able to enjoy your free days.

Capitalism.

Hurriedly, you stepped under an awning as rain poured down onto the streets beside you, using your coat to cover up the silk flower you'd just purchased from a neighboring store. It was a delicate thing, but pretty, and you'd bought it on impulse. It would make a nice decorative piece in your living area, or maybe your kitchen (they were essentially the same area in the tiny place, but it was a worthy distinction in your mind). You shivered. The heat radiating from the building next to you was warm, creating a paradoxically comforting and unpleasant humidity. You looked at the sign hanging above.

Dragon's Den Books and Antiques.

As good as any other store, you supposed, and stepped inside. The interior of the building had an older style, dark walls adorned with paintings and cracked crown molding lining the ceilings. Rows and rows of books were stacked in shelves in the center of the room (old ones, definitely—you could smell them from your spot by the door). Closer to the walls, there were more shelving units, these ones not made of wood but of various metals, in various degrees of rusting. Each shelf held an assortment of items you assumed to be antiques, although you doubted you'd be able to identify the purpose of more than half of them if asked. This was certainly an eccentric place.

You walked to one of the metal units, grazing your eyes over the selection of pieces. A chunk of dull metal you could only assume to be some sort of ancient utensil, some glass pieces, an old set of stationery (not suited to your tastes, but maybe if you'd been a nineteenth-century housewife). At the end of the row, something caught your eye in the back. You reached in and picked it up, curious. A lovely silver...comb? It was a bit dirty from age, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a bit of effort. The comb had white lining and a striking flower pattern covering its side. You turned over the price tag.

Holy shit.

Did people really pay this much for old things? You lived on a tight budget, and that was being generous. To pay such a price for a comb—you wouldn't. You set it back down, careful to avoid damaging any of its coloring, and moved to turn around and go somewhere else in the store.

Or at least you would've, if you hadn't walked directly into some guy.

'Some guy' seemed surprised to have been bumped into, despite standing directly in the middle of the aisle, inspecting a... fork? You weren't sure exactly what the object in his hands was, but if the price of the comb was any indication, you wanted to avoid damaging it.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" you interjected on instinct. He paused for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

"It was not your fault at all. I shouldn't be so careless in where I stand while shopping. I'm afraid I may have damaged your flower." He glanced down at the—ah, yes, the now wilted silk flower in your hands. 

So much for lively decoration.

"I am truly sorry," he added, before you could even think to say no big deal. "It was a beautiful one you'd chosen. Fine quality too. Please, allow me to pay you back."

Huh?

"Oh, there's no need sir. It's just a flower." Oh my god, this guy is so polite. He shook his head again.

"I insist. It's clear to me that that flower was an item of value, and I have damaged it. The pigmentation was evenly added in the allotted areas, while still maintaining the imperfect appearance of a natural flower. The pattern is unique, not the kind one would buy cheap from an untrained vendor. Based on it's sheen I can see that it is made from well-sourced silk. Historically, such pieces would be gifted to victors and beauties. It would be a shame for me not to compensate you." He looked you dead in the eye as he said this, apparently firm in the idea that your silk flower was that valuable. It seemed the man had quite the knowledge on the subject, as obscure as it was. I guess a place like this would attract people like him.

"I noticed you were admiring that comb earlier. Would you like it?"

Huh?

No way the flower was worth that much.

"Oh!—um, there's no need! The flower is hardly worth that much trouble." He squinted his eyes, as if in thought, but the change went away after a moment. Calm as ever, he reached into the shelf behind you, getting ever so close, and wow, this guys eyes—a shade of amber you'd never seen on another person before—they were ever so nice. After a moment he stepped back, the arm above your shoulder coming back into view holding the same silver comb you'd been looking at before, price tag dangling in front of your face as if to mock you.

He hesitated for just a moment before making a hand motion towards you.

"Follow me. It is my treat."

And then he walked away, towards the front of the shop. You stood in place, almost shocked.

He just left?

Expecting you to follow him, too.

Bringing yourself out of your temporary stupor, you made your way along his path to the registers, where he was standing, already holding a small paper bag. Facing you expectantly, although holding a tranquil expression.

He raised his eyebrows as if to beckon you over, and so you did. Once you approached, he pressed the bag in your hands. You didn't dare inspect its contents—that comb must've been something like twenty times the cost of your wrinkled silk flower!

"Oh, thank you!" He shook his head again, and you noticed a length of hair swinging gently behind him, dark locks tipped in an elegant gold tone.

A connoisseur in all things, fashion to hairdressing to silk flowers? It wouldn't surprise me with his getup (attractive and well-fitting, no doubt, but strangely formal for such an outing).

How many times is he going to shake his head?

"There is nothing to thank me for. Thank you for accepting my compensation for damaging your flower. Have a nice day..." he trailed off.

Oh. He doesn't even know my name.

"It's Y/N." He smiles gently.

"Have a nice day, Y/N."

Within the next second, you're left alone in the warm store.

Is it not still raining outside?

Did he just walk out into the rain?

I don't think he was carrying an umbrella either.

What a strange man you'd just met.