I paid for your silence

[winifred-anwell.livejournal.com]

Day 101
Wednesday Morning
The Organ Grinder

The road isn't empty even, fairly early in the day, and I try not to look at anyone too closely as I trot down the street, examining Dorian's map carefully.  I wouldn't like to get lost, but I do try to trip along at a good clip.  I'd like to impress Dorian by getting his errands done on time, so it's with a sense of purpose that I reach the large road and squint up at the signs.

The Organ Grinder?  That's... well, that's awful.  Macabre, to say the least.  But it's not my shop, and I'd have to say that I don't know what I would name a butcher's shop, anyway.  I still don't know how wise it is to go reminding your clientele of where their food comes from.  I try not to consider it, myself, but I remember how I cried when Papa explained to me that the lambs that the shepherd boys tended would be eaten someday!  Still, I suppose this is the way it's done.  I try not to be intimidated as I step inside, feeling the air cooler on my neck and looking around with wide eyes.  "Hello?" I try, timidly.  I'd like to hurry, but I have suddenly remembered that I don't know anyone here but Dorian.

[Closed]

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[simon-klavec.livejournal.com]

Hard at work, today. Cutting pork back behind the counter. Out of the light, but can still see customers come in. Not been out to the ranch, lately. Marks has been doing most of the slaughtering. Miss doing the work, but its good practice for butchering and such. Bit strange to be dealing with customers and minding a shop. Stranger still for them to greet me, and me giving them their usual cuts. Well. Not moving on anytime soon, I suppose. Find myself wanting to keep an eye on people. Make sure they're doing all right. Feels... well. Like something's coming.

Bell rings, and a small warm breeze floats in. Breaks me out of my daydreaming. For the best, that. Get too somber, otherwise. Young woman looks in. "Hello?" Got a mass of curls, and she's well dressed. Don't recognize her, and that's starting to mean something. I step up to the counter, wiping my hands on a rag. "Morning, Miss. Can I help you?" She seems nervous, so I smile. Helps. Sometimes.