Even when I had a job, I couldn't afford to shop at Porte Rouge, yet it never stopped me from wandering inside of it. I liked its ambiance, and imagined it to be the kind of place I'd support if I had the means, in the same way that guys who like cars return again, and again to auto showrooms, a dreamy look on their faces, a sense of calm if only by promixity.
On a few occasions I purchased tea, which came in a bag that I used to tote my lunch in, so in some ways I felt "branded" by the quaint shop full of French countryside inspired furnishings, and housewares.
Today there was a closing sign, advertising up to 75% off.
I held the fake fruit, put it back, almost left, then returned to the fruit again. It was a debate played inside my head, as well as aloud. Amy, the shop owner, was probably more interested in selling a $1,000 table than $4 worth of faux fruit to an indecisive, unemployed fruit bat, but I left Porte Rouge toting a boutique-y baggie with four pieces of fruit, two pears, and two apples, priced to sell at $1 each.
A few minutes later, at the post office, I ran into YA. I gave him a pen because the ones there were out of ink. Then, I gave him my print copy of this week's Reader because he was eyeing it. Finally, I showed him my fruit, which I was really excited by.
"Those don't look real at all," he said.
Shut. Up. I replied in my head. You have no idea what this fruit means! Where it came from!
"Yes, they do look real," is what I think I replied to YA.
Real, or not real, the fruit was part of something that was real, and it will be missed.
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