Written 11.6.03

The store smelled like age. It reminded Lily of the persistant smell of an elderly person's home, or of a seldom visited attic; as distinct as the smell of a library, or a shoe store. It was located in the corner of a mostly defunct strip mall in an awkwardly shaped space that Lily surmised went for cheap because no one else wanted it. It was operated by the Lutheran private high school, and Lily preferred it to its corporate counterparts like Goodwill.

The clothing racks were virtually overflowing with the cast-offs of every variety. A few items were of the kitchy retro sort that could be called thrift store chic, but most were plain, drab, tasteless pieces that would likely remain on the racks for years.

Normally, Lily dug through the fabric looking for burried treasure, but after a few racks, her interest waned. Instead she turned to the other part of the store where anything that could not reasonably be considered clothing was kept.

Here, the thoughtless accumulations of a lifetime came to rest.