Pincheck Traveler's Vest

In the Land of Saints and Scholars.

Dublin, a vintage shop stocked to the actual rafters with deadstock denim, antique tooled-silver lighters, a hodgepodge of military ephemera. 

Everything steeped through with pipe smoke and melancholy. To the good, in the ledger of such things.

A labrador named Waylon offers one tail thump when I scratch an ear.

Two leather chairs—cracked, softened, sagging, perfect—in the back corner. 

Draped over one, a beautifully-proportioned French hunting vest in an interesting pincheck cotton. 

The shop (and pipe) owner offers to show me a backroom stash of whiskey, but customs would be too tiresome.

I take the vest at full price. 

The lighters were tempting. The dog, I’ll think about once or twice on the flight home, when I write this.