She’s behind me in line, well, more like next to me, and there’s a relentless tapping of something on the large package in her arms. I take a sideways look and see a bracelet in striking shades of blue; what looks like tiny blue ceramic teeth interrupted by gold beads.
“Wow,” I say, pointing to her wrist. “That’s a fantastic piece. I wonder how they got those to look so much like teeth.”
“They are teeth,” she says. “They’re my son’s teeth.”
“Really? How old is your son now?” I ask.
“He’d a been fourteen this spring,” she says flatly.
“Ahh,” I say. Long silence.
“Next!” demands the postal worker at the second counter. I walk up and my mind goes blank. I cannot remember what I walked here for. I look at signs above my head, hoping they may shake my memory.
“Book of stamps?” I squeak.