Gemotions

The chipped, felt nose. That ridiculous, stitched-on smile. Beatrice almost choked on her iced coffee, the sudden image of eight-year-old her, dragging Barnaby the bear everywhere, a tiny terror in pigtails. Barnaby, looking significantly less loved, sat atop a pile of chipped teacups and dusty board games.

She pointed a finger, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “How much for the… the distinguished gentleman?” Her voice wobbled a little, an echo of the little girl she used to be.

The woman running the sale squinted, then shrugged. “Dollar fifty.” Beatrice dug in her purse, a bubble of laughter building in her chest. A dollar fifty for a piece of her past? It felt like a steal.