Wallpaper

He'd been wandering the shelves of the forgotten antique store for a few minutes. Just, browsing. Browsing was all he ever did, really. No conversations, minimal interactions, just absently wandering through stores and through life. No longer searching for anything in particular.

He paused for a moment as an elongated cylinder caught his eye. Gently, moving aside an old Japanese paper umbrella and a few rusting fireplace pokers, he delicately extracted the tube from its resting place in the wicker basket.

It was a yellowed paper roll of something. Something whose name escaped him. It was of a grandmotherly kind, with large (yet detailed) floral print. His long thin fingers trailed over the crinkled edge. Taking a moment to appreciate and marvel over how time interacts with paper. The way the colour changed, how the edges curled, how the very material, once considered so beautiful and held such value, becomes obsolete.

He saw, clearly in his mind's eye, a room. A kitchen. Warm with a fireplace. A woman at the counter, a frenzy of flour flying around her like a cloud, rolling and kneading dough. Twisting braids with efficient  motions imbued with the fluidity and instinctiveness that come only with years of practice. He had always loved watching her bake. The room was safe. Familiar. A glance to the walls and he saw it.

Wallpaper.

The word brought him rushing to reality. Glancing again down to the object he held, he weighed it carefully in his palms. As he rolled it back and forth in his hands, he felt it encounter the gold band on his finger. Being reminded of its presence gave him pause.

Walking back to the front of the store, he quietly set it on the counter. An ancient gentleman looked up from a novel and seemed surprised. The same surprise displayed at seeing a customer walk through his dusty doors. With a smile, he picked up the roll to examine it. A peeling faded green sticker on the bottom read the price, which he relayed to the man standing at his counter. The man passed him the appropriate amount. A receipt was offered and wordlessly declined, the wallpaper was slipped into a fragile looking plastic bag, and with the same creak and bell that had announced the man's presence, the man left.

Walking home, the man felt a small amount of joy at his acquisition. As he approached his home, he checked the mailbox stationed at his gate. Like a sentry with a salute, it stood. Alerting him of intruding messages.  He collected the magazine inside and walked the stone-laid path to his home. The man never locked the door anymore. The neighborhood was quiet, and he had nothing to warrant burglary.

Setting his purchase on the table, he glanced at the magazine. He gave a start at the name listed, as he always did when this happened. Companies never updated their records, did they? He touched the name printed on the cover.

Martha Verle.

The man sighed, put his hat on its hook, hung his tan jacket back onto its coat rack, and sat back at the table. He spent another minute just caressing the roll of paper. Enjoying the smooth texture, creamy look, and crackled edges. He knew she would have loved it too.

Trips to antique stores, the love of dust and what lay hidden beneath it, the excitement over something long forgotten. The memories an object possessed. The stories a "thing" could never tell.

He let out a sigh and, for the first time in months, spoke.

"Martha... You'd have loved this wallpaper."