674. The butcher
© Bruce Goodman 15 August 2015
Trent went to the butcher’s. He’d never been to that butchery before. It was a square, high room with walls painted light blue. There was no meat on display, but there were four wooden chopping butcher’s tables arranged in the centre of the room. An older woman – clearly the butcher - sat in a chair against the wall.
“Can I help?” she said.
“Yes,” said Trent, “have you got any lamb chops?”
“Not at the moment,” said the butcher.
“What about beef patties?” asked Trent.
“I suppose you want two?” she said.
“It depends on the size,” said Trent.
Trent stood there. The woman continued to sit. Trent looked around the room. It was very plain. There was nothing hanging on the walls. Not a picture! Nothing! Trent thought she should have hung a carcass of a dead animal there; it would have improved the ambiance.
“This is a nice room,” said Trent.
The butcher continued to sit, like Trent wasn’t there. Then she looked at him.
“Well?” said Trent.
“Well what?” said the butcher.
“The beef patties,” said Trent.
The woman stared at nothing in particular. Trent left.
He kind of felt all wonky in the head. Sort of surreal. To this day he has no idea what was going on.