A Short Story about Appearances
By Debbie L. Miller
A vardo wagon in a clearing — paint peeling, shutters broken. Rickety steps leading to a faded blue door. A voice utters, “Enter.”
A woman stands in the doorway, clutching a shawl with a weathered hand, gray hair piled up like a ballet student. A man enters. “Sit,” she says, offering a chair at a plastic table.
He glances around the room, brushes off the chair and sits. The ceiling, lined in faded red velvet, sags. Tattered lace curtains, glass gray with soot. Filthy brocade covers the walls.
The place reeks of stale perfume.
She notes his buttoned-up coat and spotless fedora, his neatly trimmed beard and the way he sits straight and tall like a well-behaved boy in church.
“Tea? It’s herbal. I grew the plants myself.”
“Maybe later.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s a money issue.”
“Why don’t you tell me the details?”
“I’m afraid I’ve come into a bit of money and I’d like advice on the best way to handle it. Investments, that sort of thing.”
“A bit of money?”
