Kiera walks me through the store, showing me what to do during a shift. Training me, essentially. Every few minutes she stops to ask, “Do you really not remember? I’ll kill you if you’re making me go through all this for nothing.”

And each time, I assure her that I have no idea.

Eventually, though, she’s shown me everything, and we’re sitting there in the peaceful, quiet little shop, waiting for someone to come in.

Kiera is on the ground using a selection of chalk pens to draw on an A-frame. I wander around.

There’s a selection of records, and I flip through to see No Angel by Dido (which is the Dido my dog was named after, if I’m honest), The Rhythm of the Saints by Paul Simon, the soundtrack to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Caroline Polachek’s Desire, I Want to Turn Into You, and an old, ratty version of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s album Ella and Louis. There are more, and all of them seem to be entirely a selection of things I listen to on a regular basis.

“This is basically all my favorite music,” I say.

“Makes sense, you picked them out.”

“Really? Oh, that’s so fun.”

The bookshelf is filled with books to give someone who might not read them but will at least like displaying them and therefore seem cultured and interesting. The orange edition of Last Summer in the City by Gianfranco Calligarich, Answered Prayers by Truman Capote, Hotel Pastis by Peter Mayle, A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara, All Fours by Miranda July, and a massive, clothbound Slim Aarons coffee-table book.

My mind cycles around Aimee. Disjointed visions of my life with her in it. Imaginings of her as an adult.

I keep looking through the store. There’s a selection of match jars, a few ceramic vessels, incense holders, a handful of Moleskine journals, a curation of restaurant pens, vintage barware, candles.

“Ugh, I love this one,” I say about the third candle I smell. Then, after the fourth one, “This one too.”

Kiera sits up. “To be clear, you picked everything out. You do the shopping for the place.”

“What? That’s so fun!”

She smiles, furrowing her brow at me. “You’re effin’ and blindin’ about it all the time.”

“Does that mean I talk about how great it is?” I ask, knowing it probably doesn’t.

“No, it means you love to bitch about it.” She says the last part in an American accent that rivals the insulting quality of my Irish accent.

“Why do I do that?”

“I’ve no idea. You literally get to travel on the dime of the owner, Fia. You go round to anyplace she thinks, picking up nice trinkets and bringing them back here.”