Price Tag It was a shop she’d walked by a thousand times, tens of thousands of times, even. Situated between the coffee shop that prepared her coffee each morning, now anticipating her prompt 8:30 arrival with a steaming cappuccino in her favorite corner chair, and the old bookstore that smelled, even from outside, like wet newspaper, it was easy to miss. The old brick made it highly missable, as did the lack of signage. An old, wooden thing dangled haphazardly above the door, threatening to come down with each powerful gust of wind. Nothing—not even the sign (with only an open palm painted into the wood)—indicated what kind of shop it might be. Come to think of it, its size didn’t help, either, in terms of missability-- or perhaps, better said, visibility-- though calling this store visible felt like a downright lie. The cafe and bookstore had these wide storefronts; windows that, from the slush-covered sidewalks and pistol-grey sky, were more of a beacon than a display. They welcomed you with their light and people and cacophony of conversation and music. This no-name store had none of that. If a store could have less than none, this would have it... in spades. It was as uninviting as a haunted house. There was a door, of course, and a lean window that offered no indication of what lay behind it-- too covered in grime and dust. No light seeped through. Only because on this average, nothing-special Tuesday, it was raining and Lana Porter was running late because her alarm clock batteries had died overnight and when she woke up she was bleary-eyed and disoriented and soaked in sleep and so when she rushed to get dressed, she put on her shirt backwards, which required her to then take it off, put it back on correctly (though, it was a navy cotton shirt, so no one would have known one or the other (though that wasn’t the point, really; Lana would have known and that made all the difference) and the city bus she was supposed to catch she could see through her kitchen window was already fast approaching and with shoes untied and laces flapping gleefully she rushed out the door but not before giving her dog, Sally, a good pat, double checking all the lights were off, the radio was on (I don’t know if you know this but dogs love classical music, or so Lana proclaims), and the doors were locked. Only when she reached for her pocketbook to get coins-- one foot firmly on the ground, the other planted on the wide bus step did she realize she’d left her purse at home. She stepped back from the bus, and the doors shuttered closed. The driver looked at her sadly, in such a way that made Lana’s eyes fill. Her cheeks flushed before turning away and walking back up to her door, unlocking the two locks she’d just locked, and walking back inside. Sally was thrilled to see her. Lana had never done such a thing. Never overslept, never rushed to get out the door (skipping her daily breakfast of a toasted wheat muffin with peanut butter altogether), never forgot her pocketbook, NEVER had tears threaten to spill (Lana was a firm believer that crying was a private, embarrassing act that only happened in the shower)-- at least in recent memory, at least in this chapter of Lana’s life. If Lana was anything, she was organized. It was the only way she found to... endure. To successfully (though, honestly, that was arguable) live in a world that was fearful and chaotic and often unpredictable. And she prided herself on her ability to survive-- on her consistency, her timeliness, her organization. On how she, after her 57 years on this planet, found a way to be. Her life wasn’t necessarily peaceful or happy, but those weren’t her aspirations. Lana found her pocketbook exactly where she knew it would be, where she put it yesterday, and all the yesterdays before. She, once again, checked all the lights, gave Sally a good pat, and locked the door before walking the half block to the bus stop. She looked at the schedule in the transit shelter. She looked at her wristwatch. She had three minutes before the next bus brought her close enough. She exhaled something heavy. The bus ride was uneventful. That was good. Rain splattered every which way. By the time she arrived at the coffee shop it was 9:04, and the line was out the door. Lana made her way inside with a series of excuse mes and pardons. Her cappuccino was there but it was cold and the foam had sunk. The barista, Devon, saw her and smiled: “We were worried about you.” Exhaled big enough that the air pushed his bangs up. She smiled, “It’s been a morning.” “I don’t know if we’ll be able to get your order in.” “I understand.” “Something about the water main in the town over. Their coffee shop was closed, so they came here.” “Well... thank you for my coffee. I won’t keep you.” “See you tomorrow?” “Yes.” “8:30?” he asked. “8:30,” Lana said. She weaved herself out the door. The bookstore wasn’t open yet. The bar across the street was, but she hadn’t had a drink in over twenty years and wasn’t about to start now. She supposed she could head to the library. She felt uncertain and shaky without her coffee in her good seat and the fact that it was already past nine. The rain was heavy and the wind had picked up. A gust blew her sideways, turning her umbrella inside out. She rushed under the nearest awning to fiddle with her umbrella. Turning it right side out was a futile attempt-- what the umbrella really needed was a trash can. Instead, Lana shoved it, rather chaotically, aggressively into her bag. Lana looked out at the street, debating her next step. “Can I help you?” Startled, Lana turned. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I...” She wasn’t sure how she was going to finish that sentence. The woman was beautiful-- so beautiful, Lana caught herself staring. She must be in her 80s. Wrinkles framed her eyes and lips but in a way that... Lana wasn’t sure how to put it, really. You could tell she’d earned her wrinkles, you know? She had this big wavy hair, there were some streaks of brown but it was mostly grey. She wore these big red-framed glasses, and behind them were eyes greener than summer grass. Lana couldn’t look away. “Would you like to come in?” The woman asked. The woman was holding open the door to the shop-- the forgettable one. The one Lana had walked by thousands of times. The one without signs or lights or cleanliness. “Oh... I...” The woman opened the door further. “Come on. I just made some coffee. Warm up, dry off, and then we’ll get you on your way.” Lana hesitated before taking a small step forward. Then another. And another. Before she knew what she was doing, she was inside. It was immaculate. Lana was stunned to immobility. The lights were bright but not in the fabricated LED way, in the way that reminded you of home. They felt cozy. The shelves were not sparse but not full either. On them were sweaters and bowls and photo frames and wine and baskets and blankets. There was something familiar. Lana felt... she felt calm. She felt drawn in. Her shoulders relaxed and lowered. The woman approached her with a small cup and saucer, black coffee steaming from within. Lana took it. “This cup... it looks just like something my mother owned.” It had bluebirds on it-- they were in flight near the rim and handle. Small delicate things. She sipped the coffee. It was perfect. She felt dry and warm. Warmth. It’s not as if she’d been cold, but this... she hadn’t felt warm in... she didn’t know how long. The woman smiled. It was gentle. “What’s your name?” Lana asked, then immediately said. “Sorry. Sorry, that was rude. I’m Lana.” “I’m Rose.” Lana nodded. “Would you like to look around?” Rose asked. Lana did. She nodded. She didn’t have much of an expendable income; her daily coffee at the shop next door was her great indulgence, but there was no harm in looking. “Can I...” Lana gestured to the table that was covered in books and art supplies. She put her cup there. “Of course. Make yourself at home, Lana.” Lana went first to the sweaters... they were soft. The label said cashmere. She’d never owned anything like it but had always envied the women who had them. Had always wanted one... back when she allowed herself to want things. She didn’t dare look at the price tag. Lana fingered the stack of them, the rainbow of colors. She looked in the baskets-- full of children’s toys. They looked new but like the toys she’d played with when she was a girl. Lana moved to look at the frames. They were stacked and leaning-- old wood and roped satin and red metal. Lana bent to look through them. Her breath caught. Rose was behind the register, sipping her coffee, waiting and watching. “I... I don’t understand.” Lana said. “How can I help?” Rose asked, making her way towards Lana. “This... this picture. It’s of me. In my 20s.” Lana flipped to the next one. It was a painting her daughter had done in first grade. Lana knew it'd been lost to their basement flood. She loved it. Lana stumbled backward. “Where... where did you get this?” “That’s... that’s a long story. But, Lana, if I might suggest something. Drink the coffee, it’ll help calm your nerves. At least, it’s that way for me.” “I’m... are you? Did you poison me? Is the coffee poison? Who are you? What is this? I... I want to leave.” “You’re welcome to leave,” Rose said, gently. Lana found herself immobile-- stuck between her fear and her curiosity. “I...” “I know it’s hard. It’s a lot. I get it, Lana. Trust me. Please. The coffee will help.” Rose brought Lana her cup; it was still steaming. Something in Lana’s gut told her she could trust Rose. She’d abandoned trusting her gut long ago, but today was a day of firsts (or, at least, firsts in a long time). Lana drank. And it did help. She felt calmer, more willing to be patient, to trust the place and person before her. “This is... it’s an unusual shop,” Rose said. “You can see that. I’d encourage you, Lana, take your time, look around. I have more coffee, I have a couch, and I’ll do my best to answer your questions, though you may not be satisfied with my answers, I’m afraid.” Lana scanned the store-- slowly, methodically, clocking every item she could see. Some of it looked familiar, some she recognized, some of the items she’d never seen before. She went back to the sweaters, the ones woven from Cashmere that she’d long admired. All sizes were L-- all her size. Lana put the royal blue one on. It fit her perfectly-- the way it hugged her, but not too tightly. She felt the price tag along the inside of her wrist. Pulled it out and fearfully looked at the price. In beautiful cursive, it said, “A year of daily coffees.” Lana looked to Rose. “I don’t understand.” Rose nodded gently, solemnly. “It’s hard.” “What is? I don’t get it.” Lana said. “We... the thing is, Lana, we can have it all. I know at some point in your life, you started thinking otherwise. But we can. The rub with getting to have it all, dear, is recognizing that we can’t have it all at once. This... it’s a store for bargains.” “But I have cash. I can give you cash. Just tell me how much the sweater is, I’ll pay for it.” Lana was walking out with the sweater. The thought of not having it-- of not having this thing she didn’t even know she wanted, no needed, fills her with a sticky panic. She needs this sweater, it hugs her body-- a body she’s hated and mistreated-- perfectly, that somehow, impossibly, makes her love her curves and dimples and belly, that makes her feel comforted and safe. “It’s not that kind of store.” Lana pulled the yellow sweater down. It was one she liked less, the color of it wouldn’t suit her. She yanked at the sleeve, eager to see the price tag. In the same floral cursive, in the same blood-red ink, it said, “A year of dirty carpets.” Lana walked to the picture frames, flipped to the one her daughter painted. The price: “Your grandmother’s wedding ring.” “I can have this?” Lana asked, gesturing to the photo. “If you want to pay for it, then yes. Of course.” “How do you know I’ll follow through? LIke, how do you know I’ll give up my coffees?” There wasn’t a way or world in which she wasn’t leaving wearing this sweater. “Or bring my grandma’s ring.” “You sign a contract.” “What do you mean?” “Your receipt.” Rose smiled. “Can I come back?” “Any time you want.” “I’ll... I’ll take the sweater.” “Is that all?” “For today,” Lana said. “Very well.” Together they walked to the counter. Rose wrote something on a pad; the handwriting on all the receipts was hers. The stretching cursive in the red ink... Lana will never forget it. After writing, Rose pushed the receipt towards her. It said the date, it said Rose was the clerk, the line item was listed as “The Royal Blue Sweater” and the price was “A Year of Daily Coffees.” There was a place for Lana to sign her name. She did. Lana pushed the receipt back. Rose pulled a carbon copy and gave it to Lana. “For you,” she said. “Please come again.” “I... I will.” Lana slowly made her way towards the exit, not quite ready to leave. “If I might suggest one more thing, Lana.” “...” Lana looked at her, waiting. Her mouth couldn’t keep up with her brain, which was working overtime, so she said nothing at all. “Look through the papers by the necklaces over there.” She jutted her chin towards the table in the middle. Lana walked over, her heart rate elevated. There were bunches of old postcards, none she recognized at first glance, priced at “The Shirt Off Your Back.” There were old photos and small prints-- none that really captured her attention. Towards the back there were loose leaf slips-- different sizes, weights and colors. There was one that said, “A million dollars.” The price tag was listed at, “An arm and a leg.” Lana held it up to Rose, “Is it this real?” “As real as the sweater you’re wearing.” Lana put it back and continued to parse through the papers. One said, “A dinner at the top of the Eiffel tower,” that cost “Seven years of bad sex.” She’d laughed. Lana had done seven years of no sex two times over. Who cared about bad sex when you could have a coarse meal overlooking Paris? She’d return for that one. She skimmed them eagerly, greedily. It was the last two that gutted her. The first one said: “A day with your parents.” Both long deceased. “A day with Millie.” Her daughter. Lana put them back, not looking at the prices. She couldn't bear it, couldn’t consider the cost or consequence. She’d do anything-- that much she knew. “How did you know? How do you do this?” Lana asked Rose, almost accusatory. “The How doesn’t matter. And there’s no right answer here, Lana. You can have anything you want. It’s easy to forget that. But anything also comes at a cost.” Rose smiled. “Enjoy your sweater. Enjoy the sun,” Lana turned; it was true, the clouds had vanished and the sun was peeking through. The windows looked so much bigger from in here. “And come back whenever you feel ready.” Lana could sense the dismissal. She turned and walked toward the door. “Thank you.” “You’re very welcome.” And with that, Lana left, wearing her new sweater proudly. She knew how to compartmentalize, how to focus, singularly, on the task at hand. She’d forget, for now at least, about a day with Millie, about the day with her parents. For now, she’d relish the sun on her face, the feeling of being hugged, and the joy that comes with opening yourself up to chance.