Shops with Chandeliers

I’m in a shop. Wooden counters and gleaming but spotted glass - the kind of wood on which sunlight pools, as if it likes the feel of it - and chandeliers. One chandelier is grand, nine is bizarre. Bizarre. I look down and the labelled cupboards by my right hand proffer a handle marked 'Bazaar' so I draw it open, and beckoned by the buzzing chatter without, I climb through.
Balloons sway in coloured clouds above wonder-eyed kids, and nearest me a man stands behind a tray of wrinkled-looking rocks. “Bezoars,” he tells me, smiling and gesturing to his wares. When I look away from him I am sure he is a goat. I look back. He is a goat-like person, all right: thin face, pointed beard, long horns - horns? yes, it could be the fashion here: horns - and he is wearing the kind of neat dark green coat a goat would wear, if goats wore coats.
At my right, on the door leading back to the shop, is a coat of arms. The most boring of all coats of arms: black, above white. The Power crest. My husband's arms hold an eagle, perhaps even fish. But though it is undoubtedly a better crest, I did not take it. It wasn't mine. And if the wrong crest were on that door now, would I be allowed back in?
I push it, and it opens.
What's in a name? Everything, everything. The names I've been given and the names I give myself, all are here, labelling different compartments. On a shelf I still keep the same copy of the novel I studied in school. Inside the back page, all four of my names love all four of my husband's, with the superstitious precision of a seventeen-year-old girl. I was guarding that most elusive of finds: a boy who did not believe bad moods made him more attractive. He has a shop, too, probably. But I don't know if I have a door to it.
I wheel the dial on the radio and it sputters and then Kate Bush is singing. She is out on a wiley, windy moor, rolling and falling in green. When Heathcliff has let her in the window (or not), Laurie Taylor comes on, voice like a welcoming scarf.
“In the studio with me today I have St Peter,” he begins. “Are we asleep or are we dead? How can we tell?”
Well, I think, you're an atheist, and so am I, come to that, so if we're here, this can't be the afterlife. I chew my lip. The thing is, I bought that book on Logic, but I never actually read it.
I glance around at the cupboards and drawers and doors. If I am sleeping, one of these will lead to our bed. I will open my eyes and one of us will make coffee, and we'll slowly wake up while staring out the window watching the pigeons in the trees. But if I am dead, the same thing could happen but you wouldn't be real. And I might not even know. Or I might know.
I look again at the doors. And then I boil the kettle behind the counter. I change the station: static, static, then David Attenborough talking about fireflies. I have an odd feeling I've heard this before, but I don't know when. I sit by the radio, petting a marmalade cat that has just slinked up, and I think about you sitting somewhere, in a shop with chandeliers.