"Where did you get that dress?"

"Where did you get that dress?"

Entered into Vocal's Thrift Finds Challenge: Show off and share your thrift shop treasures.

I never considered going to the thrift store. The thrift store was where you went for do-it-yourself dresses that were missing a zipper or were torn down the side. It was the room of requirement where you stashed your bags of too-small or oddly fitting clothes; the 'farm' that unmatched dinner sets were sent off to live a better life.

It was where things went to gather dust.

My friends would rave about their finds, setting their bags on the floor, pulling out each item and reciting their prices one-by-one. They were like baby dragons curating a hoard for the first time. I prepared to relinquish my Livingroom for the ensuing slumber upon their troves.

Thrift-shoppers, I scoff to myself.

"Would you look at that hideous dress!" I proclaim to no one in particular, as I walk the city streets and saunter past The Salvation Army. It's 11am, and I have a half-hour to kill before my bus arrives to take me home. "Bah!" I shout at an unsuspecting blouse, displayed in Lifeline's window.

"Disgusti-" I prepare myself to say, as I stand outside the RSPCA Op-Shop.

Only that... it isn't. I scratch my head in befuddled confusion. A mannequin stands, delicate hand splayed as if to house a passing butterfly. Her shoulders are draped in feather-capped shoulder pads, and a black woven dress tumbles gracefully past her calves.

"It's beautiful," I say. I gasp and clasp a hand over my mouth. I look left, then I look right. No one seems to have heard me. I place a foot apprehensively upon the doorway. No bolt of lightning descends from the heavens, so I take my first step inside.

I stayed inside that op-shop for more than an hour. I even missed my bus, but I was more than happy to wait for the next. Nestled in a wooden bowl in a corner of the store sat a collection of hand-painted sea shells, designed to dangle from a Christmas tree. I picked one up. The tag read '20c'. I scooped them all and carried them to the counter.

The sea shells I found reminded me of when I was eight years old and whisked away to a line of cabins overlooking the sea. My sister and I peaked into the largest of them all and spied fishing nets dragging from the ceiling, overhanging a four-poster bed.

We raved about that cabin for months following, proclaiming to anyone who would listen,

"When I grow up, I'm going to live in a Mansion by the sea!

I don't remember much else from that trip aside from the girl next door who told me her name was 'Sophie'. My sister and I sat with her on the hardwood swing, and told secrets that were most likely lies. We woke at sunrise, and watched cartoons on the box T.V.

Fifteen years later and there were few things that could make me get out of bed at sunrise. But, the whispers of a rumoured one-million or so books piled upon tables had me traipsing down the street, answering their call like it were a waft of fresh-brewed coffee. The book-fest happened yearly, and so I searched for the same book every year.

“When you open a book it's like going to the theatre; first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins.” - Cornelia Funke

After the third year, I found it, pages yellowed and dust-jacket wrinkled with age. Inkspell. "This is the one" I said and nestled it closely.

The beauty of used books did not dawn on me until I accepted the fact that childhood favourites - and the dust-jackets you remember - disappear. Your favourite edition gets discontinued, and so, the only way to breathe new life into old memories is to find them elsewhere. I found Inkspell when it carried the sweet vanilla scent of a book left unopened. It was addressed, in pink cursive, to a girl named Hannah. I hope she enjoyed the book as much as I have.

It's nearing my twenty-fifth birthday and I explore the dive bars in my local city with some friends. They've branched off - to some glitzy place - and it's not my usual scene. The lights are a fluorescent purple and diamantes drip from chandeliers overhead. The techno tones are a far-cry from my usual dreamy playlist, but I drift to the music anyway.

I don't know how to speak to the bartender and the frat boys button their shirts all the way to the neck, here.

I follow the hallway through the back of the bar. There are no signs to indicate where I'm headed. Am I allowed to be here? I wonder. A security guard walks toward me. My stomach flips, and I advert my gaze. As he walks closer, I pretend to know what I'm doing. I brush pass and he stops me with an outstretched hand.

I'm not allowed to be here. I start to turn around.

"Hey!" He says. I pause and look up at him.

"Where'd you get that dress?"

I become aware of the sheer panels forming a window down the bodice, from my neckline down to my stomach. Is there a dress code here?

"It's from a thrift store", I tell him, preparing myself to be escorted out.

He considers me, and offers a smile "It's very beautiful".

The butterflies in my stomach dissipate. Strange man, I think to myself, although I smile back up at him in thanks.

I never thought I'd find a dress like this at a thrift store. The sheer fabric crumples into a delicate halter around my neck and spills like open petals by my thighs. I wore it again to a black light party, after which I declared that henceforth, all parties shall be blacklight parties. I don't know who's manager I need to speak to about this, but my decree has not been obliged.

My most recent thrift-shopping joy has come from a bustling strip a few suburbs down. In the evenings, my partner and I visit the vintage themed cinema for cheap date-night movies. Scones of warm light illuminate the rows, and the chairs are a rough but pretty red velvet.

We never arrive early enough to browse the stores, so instead, we make a game of visiting the antique shop.

"Choose an item in the window that you think will be here next time we visit," my partner says. I point out mine, picking something strewn amongst a collection of glass ornaments, gilded brooches, and ceramic dishes. The name of the game changes the next time we visit. I look through the window. Broach... figurine... serving bowl...

"Umm... what did I choose again?" I ask him.

He laughs at me, before promptly realising that he, neither, can remember the item he'd chosen for himself.

I've lost count of the amount of times we've done this. Once upon a time, we had the audacity to say "Okay! We must remember this time!". We didn't, of course. One might imagine that we'd have the sense to make a record of the item we'd told ourselves to remember. And, I am pleased to tell you that after a few too many forgotten trinkets, next time will be different.

So, I present to you the 12-carat gold air-blown wine glasses that will not be forgotten.

Epilogue: The woman strolls down the bustling street, coffee in one hand, and the other laced through the arm of a tall, broad man. A family pauses as their Dalmatian sniffs by the woman's ankles. She bends down and scratches it behind the ears. The family laughs, and tugs the dog to follow.

"Shall we go to the antique store?" the man asks the woman.

"Yes" she replies

They look in through the clouded window. Glittering jewellery dusts the shelves and an old books lies open. A set of four wine-glasses stand, painted by the steady hand of an acrylic-paint artisan. The lips and bases are trimmed in metallic gold.

The woman surveys the items, her eyes pass over the decorative glasses, showing no glimpse of recognition.

"Which one did I chose again?" She says.