Dublin, short story.

So I was sitting and people watching and decided to just like write and dramatize what I saw, and it started as just fun and pointless, but then I left and the situation sort of stuck in my head and I kept playing it out so I decided to just expand on it and make a story out of it. I don't think it's particularly good or anything it was just a really cool way to get inspiration to write and find new ideas, which in turn brought me back to some old ideas I never really developed. Real life, WOO!

The Chain:

On a blustery autumn night, a man and his wife have arrived at a restaurant, accompanied by his sister-in-law and her spouse. The man, in his newly realized adulthood, had asked his wife's hand in marriage not 3 years ago. In the blissful youth of their matrimony, they enjoyed dining with other couples. It was the adult thing to do.
The sky looked full and the air felt thick. Rain seemed imminent, as it had throughout the day, yet water had not yet come to free the air of its heaviness. It remained that way for the duration of the meal, seemingly trapped, wanting to burst. Any minute now.
His wife looked beautiful, as always, yet it was She who captivated him. Elegant, her blonde hair traveled along her outline, like strokes of a paintbrush to accent her face. Her smile gave an aura of serenity, and he was caught in it. On her write glowed a bracelet, silver, lined with charms.
"Where did you get it?" he asks, eyes eerily focused now on the wrist, filled with wonder. It glimmers with a strange beauty, a uniqueness. With every movement, it dances in the light, and sings, kshksh, kshksh, a tiny little instrument.
"I've had it since I was little..." she replies. She was taken slightly aback by his odd focus. "...but the charms I've kept adding and adding and every one of them was special to me at some point." Kshksh, kshksh, it bounces with life.
"I like to think that each one is a tiny little part of me," she goes on.
Kshksh, kshksh, it was a nice sentiment, he thinks. Dwelling on it, he is reminded of his brother, and how his brother held his baseball mitt, and spoke so highly of it, like in it held a piece of his soul. "It's my lucky mitt," but he did not understand how such a thing could mean so much to somebody. His brother wore it every time they played together, and even when he didn't tag along, and even when he started to travel and play a lot. The tired, leathery thing sit on a mantle in a room full of trophies and other keepsakes. He had never even tried his brothers mitt on.
The man drives home now, his wife's hand in his, the memory fresh in his mind.
He is laying in bed now. His room, usually rich with the beams of light being cast through the ceiling windows by the midnight sky, was dull, gray, dismal. He can not sleep. The sky has finally found relief, and it spatters across his roof, creating an ever shifting painting, luminescent, moving across the glass above. Piiterpatter, pitterpatter, a constant percussion.
His mind wanders to that bracelet, that kshksh, its lively jingle. Her face, rich with the same life. The way her smile seemed so natural, as if her lips had never known another shape. That natural, simple happiness. Kshksh, kshksh, paired with the watery symphony, plays a violent tune in his ears, keeping him up til the unholy hours of the night.
Kshksh, kshksh, with the clinking of his breakfast silverware.
Kshksh, kshksh, with the tappity tappity of his tired fingers on the keyboard at his desk.
Kshksh, kshksh, with the vroom of his engine, with the honk of the horns, with the klang of the glasses at the bar, with his friends laughter. He was entranced still. The silvery glimmer. The dancing charms. The aura.
He drives to a nearby mall, walking to the beat the kshksh, still vivid in his ears. He purchases a silver chain. He thought that he could recreate the thing, that dance, the shine, and have it for himself. The chain was long, slender, but sturdy, yet light. It glimmers, but very faintly. It lacks the liveliness of the bracelet that was decorated with tiny little pieces of Her. He searches for things to fill it up, but can not decide. Such an important decision deserves thought and time. He puts the chain on, between the button up collared white shirt he sports, and his tank-top undershirt. The bottom of it rests gently above his sternum, almost weightless. It travels up, climbing his flesh along the interior of his tank top straps, resting on his bare skin. It lay atop his collarbone, up to the back of his neck, and his chest. The silver feels cool and smooth, tickling him pleasantly as he walks back to the car. Kshksh, in his head, to the beat of his stomping feet.
A few days had passed and throughout them he would grasp at the chain, as it often felt like it was no longer there. His skin had warmed it to comfortable temperature, and still he could not decide what to fill it with, and still the bracelet dancing, and still the kshksh of the tiny little pieces of her.
After work he drives to the jeweler, but disappointingly he finds only a collection of crosses and crucifixes, none of which seem appropriate. As he paces from each glass display to the next, his fingers wander to his collar, itching at the area his chain rested, now damp with a bit of sweat. The glowing beams of fluorescent lights hanging above give all the jewelery a strong gleam. Some of the larger pieces reflect light on the far wall, creating an abstract mosaic, lifeless in its stagnancy. The glow is too much for him, and is unlike the subtle sparkle of the bracelet, the aura, the dancing.
He travels to a flea market. It begins to rain again. Kshksh, kshksh, pitterpatter, pitterpatter.
The store is empty besides the owner, who sits quietly behind the old wooden counter. The owner is an old man, wrinkled, stern, who seemed as if his long life had left him perpetually tired.
He walks swiftly past the owner, towards the small glass display where all of the pawned jewelery lay. His eyes scan carefully over the precious metals, hoping something will catch his attention.
Unaware of it, he speaks out loud of his discovery, and the stone faced owner moves slowly to him.
"Which?" the owner mutters, and the man points. Silently, the owner unlocks the small metal lock keeping the display shut tight, and removes the thing, handing to the man. He holds in his hand now a small silver high top shoe. It is exceptionally detailed, and glimmers faintly in the yellow light of the store as he turns in in his hand.
A close scan reveals a small scratch, by the sole of it. At first unmoved by this, in the few seconds he holds it the scratch begins to trouble him more and more. Someone had loved this, it was a tiny little piece of them, and he could not explain this scratch. What history this thing held if the right person had it in their hands? Again, it feels wrong, and he sets it back down in the small glass display, next to all the other tiny little pieces of everyone.
Kshksh, kshksh, it would not go away, the sound, the dance, the life, the happiness, kshksh, kshksh kshksh.
At the bar now, he spots a small shine running along the bartenders collar. The bartenders chain, golden and slightly thicker than his, struck the man as odd, and he grew inquisitive.
"This here," replies the bartender after the man asks what it was and why he wore it, "this here is the cap of the bottle I sold my wife the night we met." His hands fiddle with the thing, now old and worn. He holds it gently, like a child, while he goes on, periodically pausing to examine it. "Been here tendin' the bar longer than I should be, and one night she walks on in, couple friends with her. They drink and laugh and I notice her, so pretty and all. I had never been much for smooth talkin', and my shyness keeps me from making past small talk, but that very next night she came back and asked me to take her out. Few years later, she gives me this and tells me she knew she loved me since she first walked in, and this here's the proof. She kept it all that time. That very night I bought her the ring." His faced fills with a natural happiness, a loving bliss, and in his eyes reflect a tiny glimmer as he looks on at the thing. Except, it was as if he was looking through it, into every memory he and his wife shared.
The man finishes his drink and leaves, his head heavy. The rain is strong now. Driving through it, he thought about those pieces stuck in that tiny case, under the yellow light of that flea market, kept company only by the perpetually tired owner. He wonders about the scratch, and all the imperfections and blemishes they all might have and what those all might mean to the person those were once a tiny little piece of. He wonders if they ever danced elegantly, and sang with the aura of simply happiness. Kshksh, kshksh, he wonders.
The rain droplets moistened his skin along his neck, and he scratches at his chain. Since it began to itch, he had realized the itch, and perpetuated it with his thought. It seems jagged, the chain, and heavy on his wet skin. Stopped at a red light, he removes it, and throws it out the window, and the small weight was lifted off of him.
Arriving home, he changes out of his sopping clothes. He feels a strange mood of content, which felt undeserved almost, but he does not mind the mood. He slides into his bed, next to his beautiful wife. He leans over and kisses her goodnight.
The rain is heavy now, like sheets of water being spewed down. He looks up at the ceiling window, the fluid beauty of the rain sliding down, rippling, reflecting a faint light, painting a picture of shadow and motion on the sheets atop him. Pitterpatter, pitterpatter, the symphonious percussion and the dancing light hypnotized him. On his back, he rests his had on his chest. Thumpthump, thupmpthump, he falls asleep to the gentle beat of his heart.