Every Sunday Gunther loaded his truck and drove, in the dark, to the carpark. By dawn it would be junk heaven. He sold furniture. He knew how to clean it up so city suckers could see how good it could look. Never mind the woodworm or the dodgy joinery.
Edie, on his left, sold books and magazines—everything from classic hardbacks to dog-eared Playboys.
On the other side grumpy Col sold garden tools from a tarpaulin. So, when things were slow, it was Edie he’d talk to.
She’d started off doing markets with her husband. When he died they’d been the only thing that got her out of the house. She liked the routine.
Gunther had bought a bush block after his divorce. It had a massive shed on it, bigger than the house. Pretty soon he started filling it with things he thought he could sell in town. That’s where it started for him.
He’d stopped even thinking about romance when, one rainy Sunday, Edie arrived with an old picture frame. ‘More your sort of thing,’ she said. I found it in a skip.’
‘You’ve got a good eye, Ede. That’ll sell for maybe forty-five.’
‘You know, we’d make a good team, Gunther.’
‘Maybe you’re right, Edie. More fun with two.’
small stories about love 