She had a shop that she named Chances. She opened her doors all night and all day; she didn’t close them because there was always someone who wanted to look around with something to say.
She loved how happy they were when they left with their new chance. They would hug her and tell her next time they’d pay. They’d smile and she was sure it was enough to keep her in business while her rent ran late and while her eyes grew weary. Selling chances was what kept them coming back and without them, she’d end up alone, brown eyed and teary.
Day after day they needed more chances. Chances for forgiveness, chances for trust, chances for old lovers and chances that wouldn’t rust.
She realized that all the hugs and gratitude her little shop got wasn’t enough to keep her thriving, inside she was beginning to rot.
So she painted a new sign one night and had customers screaming through her doors, “I hate you, I hate you, I won’t be coming back anymore!” But she could smile now when new customers came to call. They wouldn’t mistake her for the doormat she once was before her great fall.