The Confectioner

 

The confectioner is a tall slim man with a hooked nose. His eyes are covered by the grey hair that has slipped out of the ribbon he uses to tie it back while he works and his gnarled hands turn round and round his gold bowl as he stirs his infamous chocolate. He counts quietly to himself in an even measured tone. One hundred three, one hundred four, one hundred five-six-seven….

I am surprised to see that he is wearing a tailored suit with a gardenia tucked into the lapel. It is a spotless white, it’s petals crisp and sharp as the knives hanging on the wall behind him. Even his spoon gleams sharply under the florescent lights.

“That’s a brave fashion statement.” I shift uncomfortably, wrinkling my nose against the tangy sweet odour of the shop.

He doesn’t even look up, but I feel his next words are pointed at me specifically.

“Better to be brave than boring.” One hundred thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five-six-seven….

I slip my resume onto the counter. The corner is folded up from where it was pinched in my backpack, as if I wasn’t already out of my depth. “I’m looking for a job.”

“I’m not looking for help.” He pours the contents of the bowl into a mold in one clean movement and sets a timer.

My hands find their way into the pockets of my jeans. “Suit yourself.”

The Inevitable

The townsfolk say that the witch of Regent ave is descended from one of the Greek fates. That any thread that she touches becomes an item of deep and powerful magic and that with it she can tell the future. Obviously I think that’s total bull, but the fee for having your fortune told is cheap, or in my case free, for a glimpse of what’s apparently to come.

She doesn’t have a real shop so I’m stuck standing on her porch in negative thirty degree weather with my hands pulled up into my sleeves and my breath hanging in the air before me while the cold scorches my throat with its sharp claws. I ring three times before she answers the door in a ratty housecoat. The warm air from inside makes me shiver as it billows out and past me, rushing out into the quiet morning like a dog that’s been cooped up for too long. She’s holding a mug with a dollar store sticker still on it that’s steaming more than my breath in the air and her hair is pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun. I want to come inside, but she blocks my path with her slender figure.

“Do we have an appointment?”

“Shouldn’t a fortune teller know when visitors are coming?” I accuse, as though she’s left me outside on purpose.

“Ah, You’re one of those.”

She steps back and I scurry into a house that smells like moth balls and thyme. The furniture is all dusty pink and covered with tassels. There’s no TV, but a lap top sits under a painting of some fruit. There’s rose coloured glass ornaments lined above the mantle. The witch can’t be more than twenty-five but this place absolutely reeks of old age. I half expect some little dog to come barreling around the corner.

“Who decorated this place?”

“My grandmother.”

“Well someone should tell her it’s twenty-sixteen.”

“Why don’t you tell her?” she inquired sweetly. “She’s buried in the Oakville cemetery.”

She holds out her hand and I pass her my gift certificate. It expires tomorrow, which is the only reason why I’m here today.

“Typical,” she hums but gestures for me to take a seat in a cushy floral armchair and pulls out a hoop and a piece of fabric that already has several designs embroidered around the other edges.

I watch the witch thread her needle. It’s a painstakingly slow process. She slouches over my future, her nimble fingers twisting, pulling, flicking. She’s as intent on her embroidery as I am on her.

I cough and somehow manage to elbow her in the face at the same time.

“Sorry,” I try to laugh it off and she fixes me with a glare. She reaches into the bin beside her and pulls a bobbin of thread from the pile without breaking eye contact with me. It gleams in the dim light, the thread long and lax and she begins unraveling it, freeing it from itself as a picture begins to appear on the cloth before us.

Thread piles upon thread until I’m looking at a woman with shimmering silver hair and a pair of bottle cap glasses.

“It’s my mother,” I murmur as she forms the mouth and nose and too-thick eyebrow.

Her voice is as raw and cold as the icicles that grow on my windowsill in January.

“It’s your future, darling.”

“If the only thing you can tell me is that I look like my mom then you’re not only a quack but also blind,” I snap.

“It’s metaphorical. You’re going to grow up to be your mother.”

I don’t want to be either of my parents and she can clearly see that because she states, “For only fifty dollars I can change that”.

It’s bullshit, but I still reach for my purse.