The Candy Shop 

Every Thursday evening, the father took the little boy to the candy shop. There were mountains of rock candy, rivers of chimerical bottles gleaming with cream soda, vertiginous peppermints, serpentine licorice ropes, gardens of dried fruit, trees dangling jawbreakers and banquets of lemon cakes. The little boy immediately fell in love with the lemon cakes. The father bought three and watched earnestly as the little one ate them in the blue twilight on the long walk home. For six days, all the boy could dream or think about was the softness and sweetness of those fragrant, magical lemon cakes. On the following Thursday, the boy was not allowed to get the lemon cakes. They did not have enough money, the father said. And so they bought some cream soda, which was pleasant, but nothing like the lemon cakes. Later on, during another visit, they had enough money, but the father made him buy jawbreakers, which were not at all pleasant. Another Thursday came, and there were no lemon cakes to be had. They were discontinued, the shopkeeper explained. They were not to be found anywhere in the city. As they began the long walk home, the little boy tried sucking on some rock candy, but he burst into tears. I don’t want to go to the candy shop anymore, he said to the father. In the blue twilight, the father gently patted his head as he surveyed the many signs of the shops, banks, cabarets, cafes and boutiques sparkling throughout the city. My son, he whispered, almost to himself, you can never leave the candy shop. 

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