The Cubicle Next Door by Siri L. Mitchell

been reduced to midget size. A world gone Martian red, where ’70s-era dwellings had been strewn amid the house-sized boulders.
    Manitou was only about eight blocks wide. Cottonwood-lined Fountain Creek divided it lengthwise into halves. From Manitou Avenue, the main street in town, the ground rose on either side at nearly a 15-degree angle. Lots had been gouged out of the cliffs. Houses with no backyards hung on for dear life. Down in town, some of the shops were only ten-feet wide—the exact amount of space available before butting up against a cliff.
    I slipped down a side street filled with antique shops waving colorful flags and dangling artful signs, crossed Manitou Avenue in front of the clock tower, and then I ducked down Canyon Avenue and unlocked the door to the shop.
    I opened the door and then switched the “Out Skiing” sign around to “Yes! We’re Open!” After turning on the computer and the cash register, I walked to the small office in the back to get the packing lists for the new merchandise Grandmother said had come in. I skimmed the line items. It looked like a shipment of trekking poles. Grandmother was probably hoping summer tourists would scoop them up as souvenirs of their Colorado vacation.
    The bell on the door rattled as it opened. Jingled as the door shut.
    After folding the list in half and tucking it in my pocket, I shut the office door and went out onto the floor. A small group of people, cups of coffee in hand, were strolling in different directions. Picking up merchandise, turning it over, putting it back down. I knew what they were doing: killing time until the rest of the stores in Manitou Springs opened. They only had about an hour left to wait.
    I plucked the list out of my pocket and took it to the counter. I smoothed it out and started entering the information into our database, one I had created for Grandmother when I was 12 years old. With only minor modifications it had survived intact for two decades.
    The door opened again. A woman walked through it. She started toward the wall of ski accessories and tools but then was distracted by the glass display case of altimeters.
    The coffee drinkers had all circled back past each other and now they were heading toward opposite corners of the store.
    I kept on with the data entry.
    The door opened again.
    “Hey!”
    Everyone in the store turned toward the voice.
    Only Joe could have matched the cheery tone of our “Open!” sign at 8:15 on a Saturday morning. He came right up to the counter and leaned against it.
    I flicked a glance up toward him and continued with my data entry. “Hi.”
    “Just out walking around.”
    “Good for you.”
    “Thought I’d buy some skis.”
    “We don’t do downhill here.”
    “I already have a pair. I’m interested in cross-country.”
    I gestured to the inner aisles of the store where skis sprouted from the display racks. “Take your pick.”
    “Anything in particular I should be looking for?”
    “Your favorite color maybe?” I interrupted our scintillating conversation to help a customer. A real one. She was interested in wax. Mostly because she was leaving for New Zealand on a ski trip later in the afternoon.
    By the time I finished helping her, another customer had come in and Joe was talking to him. They had gravitated to the center of the store and were looking at Grandmother’s Rossis.
    I walked over to them. “Hello.”
    “Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?” It took me a moment to decipher the customer’s English because it had been spoken with a British accent. The man had twin dollops of gray fluff sticking out from either side of his head. He was wearing a button-down shirt with a buttoned-up sweater vest. And while he had been holding the Rossis close with one hand, the other had been skimming their glossy length.
    I looked at Joe.
    He winked at me. “This is Mr. Finley from England.”
    “Welcome. Are you thinking of buying those or marrying them?”
    “Cheeky sort