Page 64 of Tilly in Technicolor
“And so authentically Swedish,” I say, which is objectively the most cringey tourist thing I could have uttered. She gives me a funny smile then hits a few buttons on the cash register.
The price blinks at me, and I suck my lips against my teeth in surprise: 2200 krona. That’s like… a lot, right? Or is it not?
I can’t remember the conversion rate. Isn’t it like… one US dollar is… fifty krona? Or… twenty-five krona? I try to stealthily take out my phone and pull up my conversion app without looking tacky and panicky, but I don’t have any reception.
Okay. This is fine. Now’s not the time to panic. I’m sure the conversion is either twenty-five or fifty krona for every US dollar. So that means 2200 is somewhere between forty-four and eighty-eight dollars. Which is… objectively a giant gap and kind of a lot for shoes but then again they’re so pretty and authentic and like, when in Rome, right? Or, uh, Stockholm, that is. Whatever. I’m buying the damn things.
Out on the street, I immediately slip off my sandals and slide on my precious new hunks of wood.
What. A. Stunner.
I am, quite simply, the most esoteric bitch in Stockholm right now and I couldn’t be more pleased. These shoes are now officially my entire personality.
I start wandering, my shoes clonking on the cobbles. I’m a bit dismayed to feel a blister forming on my heels, but the double-takes from what I imagine are tourists allow me to ignore the subtle throb. They probably think I’m some sort of Swedish fashion influencer and they’re amazed at my flawless European style.
After a while, I recognize some of the buildings around me, and I realize I’ve meandered back to the hotel.
The place we’re staying is small, and I take a moment to watch the fading golden light of dusk touch the building. We’re on the second floor of the four-story hotel, and Oliverhas the corner room looking out onto the narrow side street below us. The dying sunlight creates a glare on his window, and I’m suddenly kind of desperate to see him. To enjoy the calmness of his company.
Is he up? Is he working? Watching TV? Maybe he’s on the phone with the mystery girl he has condoms for.
I hate the possibility of that idea and it pulls me forward until I’m standing under his window like the world’s greatest heartsick cliché. Barf.
But, if I’m going to be a cliché, I might as well really give it my all. Looking around, I find a tiny pebble on the ground. I pick it up and toss it toward his window. It barely makes a sound when it hits the sill. Frowning, I find a slightly larger rock and chuck it, but I miss his window entirely. I grab the last stone I can find and hurl it at his window.
And…
CRASH!
The sound of shattering glass creates a similar sensation in my stomach.
I’m rooted to the spot as the window screeches open and Ollie’s head juts out. He looks back and forth down the alley then directly down at me. “Tilly?”
“Hi, Ollie,” I say, giving him a limp wave. Like an idiot.
“Are you alright?”
“I… uh… I was wondering if you were busy.”
“You broke the window,” Ollie says, stating the painfully obvious as he stares at the glass.
“Yeah. I can see that,” I call back.
“Is there a particular reason you threw a rock at me?”
“It wasn’t at you… just your window.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Ollie says.
“So… are you busy?” I ask, tapping my clog against the ground.
“Besides now having to figure out how to replace a pane of glass? Not particularly.”
My grin is slow, but unstoppable. He’s such a sarcastic ass. I hate that I find it so adorable. “Wanna hang out?”
Ollie grins right back at me.
Chapter 29Death by Clog
