Bob Wittersheim

Salt crunched under my boots on the sidewalks, and I stopped to look up at the sky.

Of course it was.

Of course it was.

Of course it was.

I pulled open the door to the shop.

I pulled open the door to the shop.

I pulled open the door to the shop.

I slipped off my gloves, one and then the other, and tucked them into my coat pocket.

I slipped off my gloves, one and then the other, and tucked them into my coat pocket.

I slipped off my gloves, one and then the other, and tucked them into my coat pocket.

And then I found them,

And then I found them,

And then I found them,

The plates were round and minimal, with a small lip and a humble feel.

The plates were round and minimal, with a small lip and a humble feel.

The plates were round and minimal, with a small lip and a humble feel.

Plates and Bowls There is a little shop in downtown whose window I have been looking through each time I pass by.

Plates and Bowls There is a little shop in downtown whose window I have been looking through each time I pass by.

Plates and Bowls There is a little shop in downtown whose window I have been looking through each time I pass by.

Pretty wine glasses, cozy-looking coffee cups, linen napkins, and heavy, hardcover cookbooks. They have a few shelves of fancy salts and olive oils. Candies and chocolates you can't find in the grocery store. And jams made of fruits I've never seen in person.