By Mary Anne Griffiths
She walks around the makeup department looking as if she knows what she’s doing, smearing a foundation or lipstick sample on the top of her hand, moving it around under the lights to appear as if she is considering this shade or that. There are so many options, products, none of which she understands.
“Can I help you?”
The store clerk seemed to come out of nowhere. Who knows how long she stood there watching, suspicion building. What if she thinks I’m shoplifting?
Umm, no. Thank you.” She places a mascara wand back on its display hook.
“I can help with color matching. If you have any questions, I’m at the front.” She cocks her thumb behind her brassy blonde head then returns to her seat behind the cash register. She begins filing her nails.
Why did she say that? She’s watching me, that’s for sure. She grabs a few things—bright pink lipstick, the cheapest bottle of foundation. She decides to unhook the mascara and carry all of it to the register.
“Hmmmm. That’s an interesting shade of pink, eh? That’ll be $39.76.” While the items are being bagged, she inserts the debit card trying to remember her PIN. Raw panic starts to seep in and she tries to disguise her trembling finger punching in the memorized number. The clerk staples the receipt to the bag.
She turns and rushes out of the store. She can feel the clerk’s eyes boring into her back. Everyone seems to be watching her. On her way out, her shoulder catches another shopper who growls under their breath at her. She finally reaches her car and slips into the driver’s seat. She takes off the wig and undoes the overstuffed bra.
Breathe. In and out. Calmly. It’s okay.
He starts the car and heads home.
* * *
Mary Anne Griffiths (she/her) is a poet and fiction writer living in Ingersoll, Ontario, Canada. She shares space with a husband, a tortie and tuxie.