The cement radiated heat as Russ and I made our way towards the London Bridge. 117 degrees Fahrenheit in Lake Havasu, Arizona. The bridge had been moved from London to Arizona by an enterprising huckster fifty years beforehand. Now, it perched beside souvenir markets that sold jackalope postcards, engraved marble coasters, and tee-shirts emblazoned with garish cartoons.
We passed a replica of a British payphone. Late afternoon sun on bright red metal made it look like an angry rash. One step, two. The bridge remained stubbornly distant.
A man stepped into his shop doorway and stared at us. ‘You coming in? I hope you’re here to buy hats. You certainly need them. Skin cancer is no fun.’
My husband flinched when he heard the word ‘cancer’ but then composed himself.
I pointed inside the shop. ‘That straw hat would be perfect for you.’
The hat hung from a rack, wedged between tight rows of marshmallow candies and snow globes. Did it ever snow in Lake Havasu? I couldn’t imagine it.
Russ looked pleased. ‘Just the kind I’ve been searching for.’
The shop owner sprang to action. ‘Here, let me get it for you.’ His accent was foreign, clipped. I couldn’t tell whether he was Australian or British. He whirled in midair like a ballerina and plucked the hat from its rack. ‘Come here, handsome. Your wife won’t be able to leave you alone tonight.’
Russ accepted the hat and arranged it on his head. He’d lost some of his hair during recent months, but still had more than most men his age. The owner held up a mirror and nodded. ‘Just as I suspected. This, sir, is your hat.’
No point in arguing with such a persuasive fellow. He turned towards me, face set in a radiant but inauthentic smile. ‘Now you need one.’
With one deft motion, he snatched another hat from an adjacent rack and held it aloft. Feeling dazed, I took his offering and placed it on my head. It was slate-gray but feminine, with an upturned brim and a tiny pink ribbon. A perfect fit.
‘Looking marvelous. You lovebirds should have a photo,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Got a cell phone?’
We stepped outside and stood beside the bridge. My husband handed over his phone. The two of us postured and grinned. Five minutes and sixty dollars later, Russ and I left the store. We never knew what hit us.
The sun had begun its interminable descent towards the horizon. At least we were safe from its ravages. Russ’ new hat sat atop his head, perched at a jaunty angle.
I had a sudden premonition of the hat, empty and abandoned on top of our dresser. Would my husband be alive long enough to wear it for more than one summer?
With heavy effort, I pushed the image from my mind and gave Russ’ arm a small squeeze. He turned towards me and smiled.
‘Let’s get dinner,’ he said.
Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona. Her most recent books, ‘Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices’ (Czykmate Press), ‘Death and Heartbreak’ (Weasel Press), and ‘Cocktails at Denny’s’ (Alien Buddha) were released in 2019. Leah’s work appears in Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Find Leah on Twitter at @leahsnapdragon and www.leahmueller.org.
Photo by Michael C on Unsplash.
Really brilliantly crafted. Congrats!