The elderly woman awoke early on Sunday as usual, ritualistically rising out of bed, putting on slippers and a robe, and turning on the kettle. Ten minutes later, as she held the cup in her hands, she stared across the room and out the window from her kitchen table. However intense her gaze may have appeared, she was not paying particular attention to the young couple moving in across the street. Rather, she was mentally determining how much of her pension would be allotted towards the flea market this week.

The weekly visitation to the flea market had been a lifelong habit. Sixty years prior, her mother had first taken her to such a market. The various trinkets, the worn clothing, the broken toys, the sets of objects that had been missing bits and pieces that others would pass over; they all appealed to the young girl. As she matured, her tastes matured with her, and she naturally had progressed from purchasing toys and knick knacks to buying more practical items and antiquities.

It was at a flea market that she had met her late husband. She, a young woman then, had been there with her mother. He was a cheerful and somewhat eccentric man. They had immediately taken shine to each other, and throughout their relationship and marriage, he had accompanied her on her weekly excursions. Together they had visited all manner of markets; ranging from the events that displayed higher quality items, to others that were little more than yard sales. Neither of them were particularly inclined to have children, and upon her husband's death by a stroke, she found herself shocked and alone.

Although she grieved terribly inside, she forced herself to carry on with life as usual. Within two weeks of his death, she was once again frequenting the local markets. But no longer had sellers found themselves met by a smiling face and small talk. Instead the woman had become reticent. She would quietly pass from table to table, looking though not really perceiving, and often returned home with empty hands.

The phone rang in the living room, and she paused in her calculations to answer it. It was Herb, a man of her age she had encountered occasionally at smaller yard sales. She knew that he had taken a liking to her, and though she enjoyed his company as an acquaintance, she consciously drew the line there and forbade herself from reciprocating interest. To her, it was too late for such things. He invited her to accompany him to a yard sale, but she was not in the mood for company, and intended to go to one of the larger markets. She politely declined.


A half an hour later, the old woman arrived at the flea market, having slowly walked there from her home. Immediately, she began again her routine of pretending to be interested in the wares and second-hand goods as she drifted amongst the people and the tables. Passing by a woman and her table laden with porcelain, something glinted and caught her eye. She paused and turned to face the object.

Her eyes, showing a rare speck of interest, centered on two ceramic cats, molded together. The cats' eyes were vibrant in comparison to their dull bodies, and she knew that they had been what had gotten her attention. Finally intrigued, the elderly woman made her first purchase in months.


Upon returning home, the woman placed the piece on her table, and boiled another cup of tea. As she sat and drank, she took in the details of the art in front of her. One cat's head nuzzled against the shoulder of the other. The bodies were worn, slightly chipped in places, and faded in color. Yet somehow, the eyes appeared pristine, and almost alive, as though they had not changed since the day the figures were produced. A growing sense of familiarity emerged within her as she observed them, and she suddenly stood. Walking into the living room, she approached a shelf and gently took down a framed photograph standing there. She glanced at it for a second, then brought it back out to her kitchen table where she had left the cats. She propped the photograph up next to them and compared.

In the photograph, she and her husband were standing, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. There they had been in their late fifties, and it would be only a month later from that day that he would be claimed by the stroke. Their bodies and faces showed signs of age; he was slightly stooped, and both faces were wrinkled. Overshadowing these obvious indications of aging were the smiles of the happy couple, and their eyes, gleaming with love and youthfulness.

Throughout the following week, she often would find herself sitting, introspective, at the table with the porcelain cats and the photograph. By Saturday, realization had finally run it's course. She remembered that the flea market's appeal had initially been the merchandise itself; the prospect of getting to rummage through it, the sensation of discovery when seizing on something within it. But, as she grew to understand sitting there, it was the pleasure of companionship that had been why she kept attending the markets as she became older. First, with her mother, and later, with her husband.

She understood. Taking the cats and photograph into the living room, she replaced the picture to it's previous position on the shelf. Next to it, she placed the cats, whose eyes shone in the light coming from the room window. Satisfied with the arrangement, she glanced around the room before spotting the phonebook on an end table.

Sitting on the sofa, with the phone in hand, she dialed Herb's number. To those who had only known her as a widow, she would have been a stranger. For as she spoke, her eyes were bright, and a smile had appeared on her face.