Arcanum.

The gears were rusted taut, crusted orange and unforgiving. With some effort I managed to kick it into third, but that was as far as she'd go and from there I struggled as best I could, gratefully resting on downhill grades as gravity took over.

The cracks in the pavement rattled my frame menacingly, the vibration reaching up through cushioned wheels shaking joints loose and creaking. My teeth chattered through storm-filled potholes, over chunks of sidewalk thrust free from conformity by the impatient roots of ancient oaks. A sharp right at Napoleon, past Anne Rice's orphanage-cum-mansion, and a left on Magazine. You were there, I know, just around the bend. Just out of reach.

Limbs weary I coasted to a stop in front of a dilapidated storefront, paint peeling and bleached from the endless rain. Its socket clogged with mud the kickstand resisted full extension, and resignedly I leaned the bike against a telephone pole before chaining one with another, locking them together against the looming world.

With a parting glance I stepped gingerly inside the shop, senses shocked by the sudden drop in temperature, eyes blind without the sun's illumination. In my disorientation you were there, singing my thoughts back to me: If I went with you I'd disappoint you, too.

No, that was just the radio.

Tinkling bells in a dark recess signaled the owner's return to his post, a grizzled old man with hair sandy from age, with skin wrinkled from countless thunderstorms weathered.

"What can I do for you, young lady?" he asked, his cane dragging him slowly to the counter where I stood.

"Bike chain," I replied, my eyes blinking slow and steady as they adjusted to the light, as my head adjusted to the task at hand. "I called a couple days ago looking for a chain for that rusty pile outside."

He leaned forward to peer through the grimy window and suddenly, unexpectedly, chuckled. "My dear, it seems as though someone has taken the liberty of relieving you from that particular problem." Indeed, all that remained beyond the door was a castrated Master lock lying on the steaming pavement.

With a demoralized sigh I turned back to face the shopkeep. "Do you mind if I call a cab?" I asked, my purpose in this place suddenly eviscerated.

"I'll call one for you," he offered kindly. "Why don't you take a look around while you wait."

In tacit acceptance I stepped forward to inspect the glass case perched upon the countertop, full of mismatched cufflinks glimmering dully through tarnish. The rows of moldy paperbacks lined up along a crooked bookcase in the corner. Faded estate furniture upholstered in moth-eaten velvet. Forty-five minutes later I found a replacement purchase, a large wooden cross dangling from a mottled gold chain, forgotten amidst a pile of tangled baubles and beads. Beneath an ancient layer of dust I found engraved the words:

I'm already somebody's baby.

And just like that, we were over.



***
This was adapted from a short story I wrote last February.





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This week on The Collective, we let you in on the five best whatevers in the universe.