hard wares

The man behind the splintered counter peered over his glasses and smiled a patient smile, holding a laugh aching to bust out.
'You want what again, ma'am?'
'A knocker nub.'
'I don't quite know what you mean.'
'I have a knocker.'
'Ma'am?'
'A door knocker. The little nub is gone.'
'Nub?'
'The thingy the knocker bangs against.'
'The stopper.'
'Sir?'
'We pros in the hardware industry call it the stopper.'
'Ok, a knocker stopper.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Mine fell off and rolled away.' She sighs. 'Vanished.'
'Was it screwed in or glued?'
'Screwed in the rear.'
He bites his lip. 'Oh.'

'It's the half-door - the door to my art studio. An old old stable. Perfect, so just the right quantity of light projects indoors when I'm painting, and the lower door keeps pesky magpies from moseying in. Perfect, until that annoying ghost slams it shut, throws the bolt, and all I get is crooked light through the windows clouding my canvased blue skies. Maybe all that slamming loosened the stopper.'
'I see.' Fakes looking in a catalog with pointed finger.
'A ghost you say?'
'An art critic or cranky Van Gogh. I guess I should buy a quality brush,' she mused, tapping a finger upon her red lips.
'Aisle 3, brushes, next to the popcorn machine. And some carpenter's glue. Those nubs tend to break easily, out in extreme weather and all.' And in an amused monotone: 'I never thought Vincent was all that peevish about knocker nubs.'
'I thought you called it a stopper?'
'Yes, of course. Stopper. Ah, we're in luck!' Looking close at small numbers, holding his glasses with his other hand, the woman admiring the shining light reflected off his bald head, keeping his professional hardware industry stained finger in a catalog sitting on top of another dusty catalog. 'Ships from Italy, Signora!'