Laget av: roberto.c.alfredo i portraits-in-words på
Shira had been inside the fair for four minutes when she realized, with some irritation, that she was having a good time.
This was unacceptable.
The building had once been a furniture warehouse and still looked faintly prepared to resume that function at any moment. High windows ran along one brick wall. Steel beams crossed the ceiling. Folding tables had been arranged in long rows beneath hanging signs marked VINYL, AUDIO, CAMERAS, GAMES, and, for reasons no one had explained, MISC. FORMAT.
The air smelled like coffee, old cardboard, warm electronics, and the particular dusty sweetness of record sleeves that had spent several decades in basements.
From somewhere near the entrance, a stereo was playing New Order.
From somewhere else, somebody was testing a cassette deck with what sounded like Steely Dan.
A third booth was playing ska at a volume that suggested a personal grievance.
Shira adjusted the strap of her bag and kept walking.
“This is amazing,” Sumi said.
Shira looked at her.
“You've been here three minutes.”
“I know.”
Sumi was standing in front of a table containing portable radios, alarm clocks, a translucent purple telephone, and several appliances whose purposes had apparently been forgotten by history.
She picked up a squat orange object with a cord.
“What is this?”
Freya glanced over.
“Fondue pot.”
Sumi stared at it.
“You can have a machine just for fondue?”
“You can have a machine for almost anything.”