Mad About You

the last moment, the scarred pot, as his cleanup projects for the day to tackle between customers.
    Sitting neatly on his large palm, the pot had a nice shape, although it appeared to have weathered a good deal of adventure. The piece was old, but he couldn't pinpoint the decade or even the century. Other than the lid, the pot was seamless, fashioned from a single piece of metal. The wide-throated spout narrowed along its upturned length, the opening so minuscule Ladden doubted its functionality. Most likely, it had graced some lady's parlor sideboard alongside other dishes that were meant to be seen and not used, then been relegated to a little girl's tea set where it had been bounced off a few hard surfaces.
    He chuckled, turning it over in his hands. On the side, barely discernible, were faint etchings. Ladden squinted and rubbed his finger lightly over the surface... words, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. One thing seemed certain, however—the lid was stuck, soldered into place by years of corrosion and disuse. Which might explain why it had been cast aside in the first place.
    After turning the sign on his door to Open and choosing a moody blues station on the radio, he gathered a can of metal cleaner and a polishing rag and settled onto his high leather seat behind the counter. Whistling under his breath, Ladden concentrated on the brass pot to avoid mental calculations of how long it would be before Jasmine walked through his door, ringing his literal and figurative bells, respectively.
    To his surprise, after only a few minutes of elbow grease, the teapot showed vast improvement: underneath the goo was not brass, but beautiful, lustrous copper. Ladden pursed his lips, the names of at least two copper collectors coming to mind. It wouldn't bring a mint, but it would buy a nice steak-and-wine dinner for two.
    Jasmine. How had he managed to fall for a woman he'd never have in a million years, not in his wildest dreams?
    His raw, sensitive fingers grazed the unknown etchings beneath the thin cloth. Just as he lifted the pot for a better look, he felt the first earthquake tremor. The windows rattled and crystal pieces whined shrilly, sliding and bumping against the shelves. As the shaking grew more fierce, he realized this was no small event and dove under the mahogany counter.
    For nearly a minute, he lay on his stomach with his arms over his head, listening to his store and its contents pop, groan, shake, and topple around him, thinking that at any second, something large and penetrating would impale him to the wood floor. The sound of crashing glass rang in his ears. The faces of family and friends flashed through his mind and he prayed they were all safe. Cool air blasted in and the bell above his door clanged with abandon as the doors banged open. The quaking grew more intense and Ladden felt as if he were spinning, held in place by centrifugal force.
    And then everything stopped.
    He lay still for a few seconds, then lifted his head cautiously. A foul stench filled his nostrils and he wondered if the sewers had ruptured. He pulled himself to his feet and leaned on the counter, slowly scanning the scene before him. Mayhem. Nearly every piece of furniture lay on its side amid broken debris. Dust motes rained down from the ceiling, coating the room's contents. Dismayed, Ladden dropped his head into his hands and groaned.
    In unison with someone else.
    He jerked his head up and glanced around, then heard the groan again, this time in front of the counter. Heart pounding, Ladden picked his way through the mess to find an elderly man sitting and leaning against the wood counter, his sandaled feet stretched out in front of him. The man wore a black turban over his white hair and seemed to be drowning in the layers of ragged sheets wrapped around his thin body.
    Homeless, Ladden decided instantly. He must have ducked inside when he felt the quake. Ladden reached forward and gently pulled the man to his feet, suddenly realizing his visitor was the source of the powerful stench. "Are you okay, mister?"
    The man lifted his gaze to Ladden, his black eyes wide. "Where... where am I?" His voice sounded rusty but richly accented, his dark skin hinted of Middle Eastern ancestry.
    "There was an earthquake," Ladden said carefully. "This is my antiques store. Are you hurt?"
    The old man shook his head and ran his hands slowly over his limbs. "I'm human," he whispered.
    Ladden felt a pang of sympathy. "Sure you are, buddy.