Irene 3

Upon entering the creaking portal he was transposed in an instant from the grim outer passage into a labyrinth of steel and aluminum. Yellowed florescents flickered tragically, illuminating the hall in static autonomy. Mechanical parts, chains and gears littered the ground. Wheels and rims dangled from above creating a claustrophobic atmosphere. Thin aisles marched forward flanked by sentinel frames pledging allegiance to Bianchi, Cervelo, Volagi. With every step newer and more impressive models shown forward, eager to be used and fulfill their maker's designs.


Treading cautiously he strode on, measuring each careening bicycle astutely as he passed. The finer machines where lifted to hang along the walls and glittered jubilantly even in this meager lighting. A counter consumed by tiny bits and bobs of metal and plastic featured a glass display filled with carefully aligned shoes and pedals. Slips of repair orders and sales forms piled themselves haphazardly on the far corner of the counter, behind which rubber treads and tubes were stacked in bins from floor to ceiling. No man attended the counter, but a thin wooden door was wedged between to steel racks leading to the back of the shop.

Searching hastily, he spotted a tiny chrome bell nearly hidden completely amidst the varied assortment nuts and bolts. Chiming away his sonic envoy searched desperately across each corner of the overfilled store and darted beyond the closed door, leaving parts scarcely known for parts unknown. No echo reverberated its greeting, though a few thin metal spokes quivered in eager anticipation. Calamboring downstairs, heavy laden footfalls ruffled the passage behind the door, growing louder, stamping forward and with a CRRRACK! the door snapped open and emitted a tawny man weather-worn and sun-stained. Toothy white hair whisked diaphanously along the rim of his glowering forehead and streaked back over his ears ending in a tangled papersmooth stream by the nape of his neck. Bushy eyebrows of a similar yet significantly more opaque shade arced in irritated humdrum at the sight of the young man, but they did no justice to the man leathery cheeks and parched taught lips. If anything the spectacles alighting upon his crooked nose seemed to rest peacefully while the glaucous eyes which they magnified scampered feverishly for something to hold on to.


Opening his mouth no more than a hair's width the old man's words seemed to begrudgingly leave his throat, dragged out, as it were, by iron pliers and grating along the rough edges of his esophagus, desperately clinging to remain within the warm comfort they'd come to know. “What..” a pause, uncomfortable. Sweat already trickling down his temple. “..is it that I may help you with?”