chemist · 73 · marketstrasse
spare, upright, with one slightly stooped shoulder from forty years of leaning over the same counter. he wears a small monocle on a violet ribbon. he does not need it for reading; he needs it for being looked at.
he prefers to be called a chemist. apothecary, he says, is for a previous century, and besides, the word is too long for the front of the shop. the window displays four great carboys for the colour; inside, the bottles are brown and arranged by what they cure. he can find any of them in the dark and frequently has to.
he refuses to dispense anything to anyone who does not first say what is wrong with them in their own words. i will not put a name on a thing if its owner cannot, he says. the niece who is taking over the practice finds this charming. she has begun, gently, to do it too.
field note · the violet ribbon on the monocle is the same one his mother used to tie up letters. he does not say this either.
the chemist's window apothecary small regret grief, small midnight