Pizza Parlor/Women's Clothing Store

There was a pizza parlor in my neighborhood that I used to frequent. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly... Something sinister was going to happen. What else to expect when, instead of wicker chairs and embroidered tablecloths, one got great gobs of cheese and tomato sauce on fried bread? But the pie was good, it was comfort food, and I was proud of my little card with ticks on it - six entitled one to one free slice. It was a Saturday afternoon ritual, to earn this small measure of approval.

One afternoon I was feeling healthier than usual, meaning the parlor was due a visit. I happened by, but the place had disappeared. I hadn't dreamed it, surely - one dreams of learning French to read Mallarme and of Federer winning the French, but not of pizza... And I was a card-carrying member, wasn't I? I enquired of my wallet, anxiously. Confirming ticks.

The odd thing was that the disappearance of the parlor had made no alteration to the street. A row of shops, the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't even decide on the precise location of the parlor. A certain women's clothing store had a more elaborate look to it than I remembered, but opulence hid the secret well.

I moved on. Walking down the street another day, by that precise spot, I felt no hankering for pizza. But I did happen to look at the store-front display, a casual glance... Then attention. Not clothes, no, that would have been far too natural, instead a photographic reproduction, slightly blurred, of a library bookshelf. The emphasis seemed to be on history and philosophy. There were a couple of titles that looked interesting: Craig Thomas' "There to Here" and Lloyd-Jones' "Blood for the Ghosts". Some other titles were hard to make out. I entered the store, in hope of enlightenment...

False advertising, of course. The clothing store had clothes in it. However, I did find a copy of the Everyman edition of Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway" on a shelf. I walked to the purchase counter with it. My face was drained of all expression. I did not look into the eyes of the saleswoman. She offered to wrap the book in tissue paper, such a nice gesture, but I declined.

My story is getting ahead of itself. Before I made the purchase, I did find a photographic reproduction, slightly blurred, of a library bookshelf inside the store. The emphasis seemed to be on philosophy. A couple of titles did look interesting: Craig Thomas' "There to Here" and Lloyd-Jones' "Blood for the Ghosts". Certain other titles were blurred.

Such confusion, such delight. We'll pay for it, my friends, if we haven't already. I was on a street in the city, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I found my way home.