sea salt

(published in MARY: A Journal of New Writing, Spring 2012) "Do we just go in?" Kevin asked. "I think so?" I said, unsure, as we slowly walked up the brick steps. The front door was open behind a glass storm door, and we looked in. A woman standing in the kitchen looked up at me, and I smiled and awkwardly gestured to the door. "Come on in!" she shouted, and when we walked in we saw two women sitting on a couch, another sitting at a table behind a cash box, and stuff everywhere. "Everything's for sale, upstairs, downstairs, and basement. Let us know if you have any questions," the one behind the cash box told us. Kevin and I looked at each other, trying to act like this all felt completely normal and not weird at all, to be walking through a [presumably deceased] person's house, looking at price tags. We were really only there to see if we could find an old chair to add to our mismatched dining set, completely furnished wit...

On Sunday afternoon we bought this typewriter.  We had gone to browse our two favorite stores (8th Ave. Antiques and Pre-to-Post Modern Vintage) in search of used furniture and otherwise useful, cool things for our new house.  We've had great luck at both of these places, from which we've purchased a coffee table, end tables, nightstand, dressing mirror, desk, and artwork; our requirements are only that the item be useful, cheap, and better made than anything at Target.  On Sunday we considered this typewriter for a long time.  It's not particularly useful, as the store owner estimated it is probably from the 50's or early 60's (design on the typewriter, tweed case).  It wasn't particularly cheap (marked "Vintage Typewriter: $50").  And there's clearly no Target-brand typewriter to compare it to.  But it came home with us, and now sits on my desk where my laptop used to be.  We're by no means antiques collectors or experts (...