Lamb History

Moreland stood before the picture window filled with hanging sausages, dried jerky, smoked slabs, ribs, and birds, plucked clean, dangling by rope. His mouth watered. He entered the shop, breathing heavily and sweating lightly, having ran.

Inside, a man stood behind a counter over refrigerated glass cases wiping his hands on a white towel patched with hues of red. The man eyed Moreland and rubbed his lips together, as if spreading chap stick or satisfying an itch. He had a spider web tattoo on the right side of his neck and a fading dagger on his forearm. Days of stubble, in uneven patches, threatened to cover his face.

Moreland approached the counter carefully. Stopping stiffly near the scale, unable to make eye contact, he stated simply, "Lamb."

The man drew his eyebrows together.

"Do you have lamb?" Moreland spoke slowly, with great care.

The man flipped the towel over his left shoulder, and spoke: "Evening. How are you?" He smiled. "You see, I prefer, that we start with at least one pleasantry. Really makes the whole thing a lot more worthwhile."

Moreland stood dumbly for a moment, unsure. He placed his hands onto the glass and leaned in. He whispered, though he couldn't have said why, maybe he was intimidated by the tattoos, "I'm really sorry. Hi. I hope you're well."

"I am."

"The thing is, I swear I just smelled fresh lamb. This caused a bundle of memories from my childhood, my grandma, cooking, her house." He paused. "So you can see I need some fresh lamb to bring back the rest of the memories."

"Nice little story. But you're out of luck, too late in fact. The last of the lamb just walked out the door."

Moreland groaned.

"Quite popular. Wonderful for business." The butcher crossed his arms over his chest.

"Thanks anyway." Moreland slumped, and his gaze fell to the floor. He turned slowly away from the counter.