You stare at the hard cobble ground, your feet pounding against it like sticks to a drum. You look up and stop abruptly at the sight. The first emotion shop to open in your quiet, boring village was less than twenty steps away from your house. A few years ago you would’ve been shocked by the idea of extracting other’s emotions just for a little happiness, but now, after she died, you hadn’t felt anything for at least a year, maybe longer, the calendar ran out and the clock hadn’t ticked for, what you could only guess was, months. You scanned the rigged timber stall. “Come! Come! One and all! Grand sale for a grand opening!“ you could see the man’s mildewed teeth though covered by sapped, curled lips, “Hey, you boy!” It seemed as though he was talking to you. Just to confirm this theory, you raised your index finger to the middle of your chest and furrowed your eyebrows slightly. “Yes, you boy!”he shouted towards you. You begin to stride towards the stand, your empty eyes scanning the discounted figures stuck firmly to the chapped wood. Sadness, 10, fear, 10, disgust, 10, anger, 12, but in the middle, a prodigious sign stood under a compact, flaxen-tint bottle, it read, ‘joy, 50’. Your legs begin to quicken as you search your back pocket, pulling out two £20 notes and a ten. “Interested in som-“ you cut him off, forcing the money into his line-covered hands, snatching the bottle, swiftly pulling out the cork with your teeth, downing it in one. Your eyes dilate as the corners of your lips curl up into a wide smile. You know that this is far from right, but still, it feels so good.