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“This one’s kinda cool.” Peter gestured toward a bright blue end table nestled next to an armoire. “What?”
Matt ducked his head to hide a grin. “Stop pointing at things. The lady over there just said you’re being insensitive to the blind man.”
Peter stifled a laugh and grabbed Matt’s arm, leading him with great care down the carpeted aisle of old furniture. “How about that one? It looks like a medieval pulpit.”
Matt leaned his chin on the end of his cane and smiled pleasantly. “I’ll take your word for it. It’s too tall for a coffee table though. What about the one to your left, next to the…screen?”
“Mirror,” Peter supplied. “But ohh yeah that one’s much better. Looks pretty sturdy.”
“It’s solid wood. I think it’d hold up against your video game nights. Though, it might break you instead.”
“I wish I’d never told you about that. It was just the one time!”
“That was definitely not the first time you’ve fallen off the ceiling and it won’t be the last.”
“It was only because I drank the mezcal you got me. So if anything it’s your fault.”
“Sure blame it on me, Pete. That logic won’t stand up in court though.”
Waving him off, Peter crouched down to inspect the table. It was a little beat up and scuffed, but 1) he didn’t care, 2) Wade could restore it for him, and 3) it was…only $40.
Peter stood up, frowning. “That’s cheap for this place,” he said, recalling the $2,000 salvaged door he almost ran into at the front of the shop. “What’s wrong with it?”
Matt ran a discerning hand over the tabletop. “It feels gross and…oh that’s a blood stain. It’s old though.”
“Great, it’ll fit right into my living room. I’m getting it. Better to buy one sturdy table than lots of weak tables. I think.”
He bent down to pick it up.
Matt grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
“I’m just—oh! Oh. Shit.” The solid wood coffee table was large, unwieldy, and had to weigh at least 200 pounds, if not more. Peter caught a glimpse of himself and Matt in one of the big mirrors reclining against the far wall. A blind man and a lightly muscled toothpick.
“Let’s just go pay,” Matt said reasonably. “I don’t think they expect you to carry it to the register. Look, here's a tag we can take up.”
The girl at the register said, “This will definitely take at least two people to carry. Do you have a car you want to bring around?” She looked up from the computer, taking in Matt’s cane and Peter’s general frazzled state as he tried to put his debit card away and dropped it.
“Uh. Or some friends who can help you?”
Matt, ever the adult around regular people who were blessedly ignorant of the fact he was the embodiment of a hot mess, smiled politely and said they’d call their friend.
Wade marched into the vintage shop a few minutes later in a strappy black dress and heels, clicking and swishing his way through the doors.
“Wow,” Peter breathed, swooning in his head.
“I’m so glad I’m blind right now,” Matt muttered, sniffing the air against his will.
Wade waved to them, walking as fast as he could in the stilettos. “Hello my lover! Hey, horns. I hear you’re in need of moi—”
“Actually we just need your very visible muscles,” Peter sassed.
“—a big, strong man to handle your thick, hard, used wooden table.”
Wade sauntered up to the table in question and cracked his knuckles. He gave it a light stroke then picked it up easily and led the way out, kicking the doors open.