Few shops in Flyside maintain regular hours—the shopkeepers, many of them inventors, seem compelled to invent their own from day to day. If one's able to forgive the occasional frustration (and Alan is), it's rather charming, this practice of conducting business as the mood strikes. As though commerce should be as much a matter of inspiration as anything else.
At this particular hour of this particular afternoon, this particular shop—it sits comfortably on a somewhat secluded corner, two narrow windows peering out at the street—is open, and a table laden with curiosities (from brain-teasing puzzles to discarded prototypes to things that are just plain broken—good luck telling the difference) has been set outside to lure in or, barring that, confound passers-by. No bell jangles to announce Alan's entrance; instead, a mechanical insect takes to the air and loops once around his head. Ducking (a habit he can't quite shake), Alan calls out a hello and doesn't hesitate to begin browsing. The shop's owner is, if not a friend, an esteemed acquaintance and lively conversationalist.
A shop, Flyside
At this particular hour of this particular afternoon, this particular shop—it sits comfortably on a somewhat secluded corner, two narrow windows peering out at the street—is open, and a table laden with curiosities (from brain-teasing puzzles to discarded prototypes to things that are just plain broken—good luck telling the difference) has been set outside to lure in or, barring that, confound passers-by. No bell jangles to announce Alan's entrance; instead, a mechanical insect takes to the air and loops once around his head. Ducking (a habit he can't quite shake), Alan calls out a hello and doesn't hesitate to begin browsing. The shop's owner is, if not a friend, an esteemed acquaintance and lively conversationalist.