Sofia Nyquist

Professor Adiga

LMW 230

28 September 2023

Treasure

There is a store which Elise likes to walk past on the street parallel to her own, two

blocks down. Its windows are dimly lit and display a variety of unusual furniture—rare antiques

and vintage designer, she imagines—as the store hosts few customers and a French name: Les

Petits Trésors. The air is cold and grey this morning as Elise hurries down the street, stuffing her

hands into her coat pockets to keep warm. The wind tugs softly at her hair, freeing the front

pieces from the ponytail she tied up a few minutes earlier. She is late for work—a waitressing job

at a small diner where she serves pancakes, toast, and hot coffee from the pot to middle-aged

women and men reading newspapers. Even in her rush, she slows down to peer through the

store's window, but a reflection obscures her view of the furniture. A moment passes before she

recognizes it's her own face: pale with dark circles under the eyes, smudges of mascara on her

eyelids, dry lips, and dirty blonde hair whipping in the wind.

As summer had turned to fall, and fall turned to winter, Elise found it increasingly

difficult to pull back her covers and roll up from the mattress on her bedroom floor. She had

awoken earlier to the cold light of winter reflecting off the bare, white walls. She checked her

phone: twelve past nine—oh, shit. Moving across her floor littered with laundry, she noted the

cobweb in the ceiling corner, along with the peeling paint that had been there long before the

trees lost their leaves. In the bathroom, Elise turned on the tap and splashed her face with icy

water, but she still felt drab under the fluorescent light—mascara should do the trick.
 Max was in the kitchen when she grabbed her keys.

"Late again?"

"Fuck off."

"Ah, come on, I'm just teasing. I'll see you at the corner later."

"Mm-kay, see you." She grabbed her peacoat and trampled down the stairs.

Elise turns her attention back to the street now, lighting a cigarette. She looks up as she

blows the smoke from her lungs. It vanishes quickly, becomes one with the grey sky. It doesn't

matter that she saw only her reflection in the store's window; she sees it now in her mind’s eye.

There is a fiberglass chair the color of buttermilk, all round and shiny like a wine glass; another

chair of honey-colored wood is held up by front legs only, which extend backwards on the floor,

both stiff and fluid, thin and sleek. In one corner is a lamp in the shape of a flat-topped

mushroom, glowing fuchsia; another reaches over a red leather sofa, it's chrome head dipping

down as if it were eavesdropping. Her favorite chair is positioned towards the back, standing in

front of a tall, geometric sculpture. The chair's form is simple—a rectangle for the seat and a

semi-circle for the back. Its cushions are a supple leather, charcoal black and impossibly smooth.

A chrome rod curves around the contours, framing the chair and forming two U-shaped legs on

either side. In her mind, she sits in it with her knees pulled to her chest, rocking gently, eying the

cobweb in its corner. Just breathing.

Looking to her right, Elise passes the corner store. The light glows warmly through the

windows, and she sees Paul stacking shelves inside. He briefly catches her eye, gives her a nod,

and flashes a smile. She raises her hand in a wave, tossing her cigarette stub as her hand falls

back down.
 A year ago, on the night of her twenty-nineth birthday, Elise, Max, and Paul were having

a smoke outside the corner store. Paul owns the store, and it quickly became the trios daily

meeting place. They were laughing and joking when Max suggested they walk across the street

and go into Les Petits Trésors.

"Ha."

"A birthday present."

"What have you taken, Max. It's twelve AM. Store's closed."

"Hey, I know it's been a few years, but I've still got my skills. Trust me, your room could

use a little makeover."

"Oh, so you're suddenly aware of what our apartment looks like now, are you?"

Paul opened a bottle of tequila. "Has the landlord fixed your heating yet?"

"No. He doesn't respond."

"Yeah, not unless our rent is a day late."

"Total asshole."

Paul raised the bottle. "Ah, well. A toast to life in your twenties."

They never attempted to go into the store that night.

--

Elise's hand freezes up as she pushes the steel doorhandle of the cafe. The bell jingles as

she enters. Tommy looks up from his post in the kitchen.

"Hey. Sorry I'm late. Did you have a lot to prep this morning?"

"Nah, it's all good. Yo—isn't it your birthday today or something?"

Elise takes her coat off, hangs it up. Pours herself a mug of hot coffee.

"Tomorrow. Well, midnight, I guess. Coffee?"

 "I got some already. But I'll cook up some birthday pancakes for you, how about that?

Body needs fuel in this weather."

Elise smiles weakly, pulling her sleeves over her wrists.

When Elise is at work, she likes to recall the furnishings in Les Petits Trésors, sometimes

assigning the customers a piece that seems fitting. The woman sitting alone in the booth by the

window, for example—she would have the dusty colored lounge chair which sits on a frame

similar in shape to a coat stand. Elise imagines her sitting in it with the same, big eyes, circular

glasses, and thin smile which she timidly offers Elise as she reaches for her cup of Earl Grey tea

with both hands (perhaps there would be a dusty old cat curled up in her lap as well). The two

loud men in the middle of the cafe—digging into their large plates of eggs, sausage, bacon, and

French toast drowning in syrup, washed down with a glass of orange juice—would each have

one of the modern, black, leather lounge chairs, which admittingly look like a hybrid between a

sun-bathing and dentist's chair. In them, she imagines, they'd feel like kings, talking finance and

taxes with even more fervor.

In truth, Elise knows that anyone who steps foot in this diner will never own a piece of

furniture from Le Petits Trésors. None of them have class. Not even her.

"Hi. What can I get for you today?"

A person of class doesn't pull out a pad and scribble: toast + egg scram, panc. blue.,

straw. milksh., coffee x2.

She gives her best smile. "Sounds great. I'll bring that right out for you."

A person of class doesn't depend on tips.

 Elise goes back to the counter and draws figures on her notepad. A person of class

doesn't end up thirty like this. Tommy rings the kitchen bell. Her body floats through the diner,

going through the motions.

--

In the three years that Elise has been renting the white room with peeling paint and

cobwebs, she has never set foot in Les Petits Trésors. She has imagined it a thousand times while

getting dressed, serving coffee, and walking the city streets; making her entrance in an elegant

black suit, commenting on the designs—their form, line, balance. As she enters, the store has a

faint smell of leather, spice and musk. The dim lighting would reflect warmly off the furnishings,

which have been arranged to fit together like books on a shelf. The vibrant hues of chestnut,

umber, honey, charcoal, chrome, sapphire, and scarlet would swell and blend so that the entire

store became a place so sacred in beauty that time stands still—the clocks simply stop ticking.

Elise imagines wandering around, recalling the names of Alvar Aalto, Marcel Breuer, Le

Corbusier, and Hans Wegner—all prominent designers whose pieces resided in the Les Petits

Trésors. She would strike up conversation with the store owner, talk of art and design and

creative intellect. In the store, Elise would be powerful. She would be wealthy and

knowledgeable in the discipline of design. And, after hours of wandering through the archive, a

lengthy and enlightening conversation, and perhaps a few glasses of champagne, Elise would

exit with her favorite chair as her prized possession.

At home, Elise would place the chair by the window looking out to the street below. Her

new chair would not be lonely; it would sit in an airy living space, art hanging from the walls,

beautiful lamps, rugs and other designer furnishings filling the space in a tasteful manner. She

would drink delicate teas and waste a day reading and rocking gently in her chair. If she got tired,
Elise would walk out onto the balcony in her silk robes and feel the sun on her skin. The air

would taste fresher, and she would breathe easily. In the evening, she would waltz around her

apartment with a glass of fine wine until tired, she would fall to sleep on a bed as plump and

cushioned as a cloud.

--

Elise awakes, and it is dark. Her eyes take a few moments to adjust before she can make

out the shape of her bedroom ceiling. She is tangled in her sheets and uncomfortably warm. As

more time passes, the peeling paint comes into view, then the cobweb. Elise tries to swallow, but

her throat is dry, and she coughs instead, noticing an aching in her head as she shakes. What time

is it? She checks her phone: ten to four in the morning—oh shit, I missed our meeting at the

corner. Elise rolls over and stands up, her feet cold on the wood. A chill travels up her body, so

she wraps her comforter around herself. Moving across her bedroom floor, still littered with

laundry, she looks at her phone again: Friday, January 26—happy thirtieth birthday, Elise. She

fumbles through her coat pocket for a cigarette and lighter, then opens the kitchen window and

stares into the dark. With each drag she starts to feel better, but the stillness of the apartment

amplifies the emptiness in her chest. She goes to the sink and fills a glass with water before

checking her notifications. Fourteen unread text messages and five missed calls.

Max: We still have to celebrate you! Paul and I'll be waiting, you know where to find us

Max: Lmk when you wake up from your nap

Paul: Are you awake? When do you think you'll be at the corner?

Paul: I've got a great bottle of whiskey I've saved for you :)

Max: Hey, it's like twenty minutes until your birthday, come over

Missed Call Max (2)

 Missed Call Paul

Paul: Are you awake? Should we come to the apartment?

Paul: Max and I are just waiting at the corner

Missed Call Max

Max: Elise, it's literally your birthday now, when are u coming

Paul: Happy birthday Elise!

Missed Call Max

Max: Okay well we're calling it a night. See you at the apartment

Max: hope your not dead

Max: Happy birthday

Max: And Elise, even at thirty in a shitty apartment with only two friends and a job you

don't like, you're still pure gold.

Max: An absolute treasure.