I’m shifting hangers of shirts I don’t need or want at Century21 when I look up and see her. She walks through the double doors and lifts sunglasses that veil her eyes and glances in either direction. Stepping up the stairs she carts a small handbag, its strap falling to her bent elbow, its mass swaying at her hip. In the other hand she holds an iced beverage with a green straw.
“Miss, food and drink is prohibited in the store,” the security man says. He is a black man, mid-thirties, standing to the left of the door wearing a navy uniform. His arms are crossed and his legs appear to be stiff and eternally grounded, as though his shift has lasted for months.
“Oh, sorry, that’s fine,” she says, dropping her nearly full beverage into a nearby garbage can as though she expected the exchange to occur. She moves onward.
Her head is tilted as she passed a mannequin dressed in a tight skirt and button-down shirt with the collar fiercely flipped upward. She tilts her head to the opposite side, as though to question how exactly she ended up in the store and what exactly she will find in its many crowded corners. Her feet scuff, wandering down the marble path as if to say “I’m waiting… where are all the sweaters.” She takes the sunglasses from her atop her head and lets the blonde masses fall over her ears. Still appearing perplexed, she puts the tip of the glasses to her lips and glances around.
Casually, she walks towards a rack of sweaters on the wall and touches them as if to keep herself busy. But then… then she sees something that actually peaks her interest, a table of neatly folded cashmere sweaters is just beyond and she extends her steps slightly and glides towards them. She feels them. Soft, she lifts a sweater that is a very light shade of pink and caresses with her thumbs as her fists gently hold it in its folded condition. She then pinches the shoulders and lets the sweat fall, unraveling to show its fitted design and low cut neck. She turns to the mirior and inspects the color against her neckline. Approvingly, but still not convinced, she stretches her neck and lowers her shoulders and tries to look swan-like. That’s enough. She, lays it across the folded sweaters on the table, rearranges the bag on her arm, and reaches to inspect the tag. She picks the item back up and throws it over her arm, as though to pretend she never questioned the purchase to begin with. She knew she wanted it all along.
She walks onward, this time walking as though she feels more assured. She glances back at the sweaters, should she have gotten it in blue, laved ender? No, pink is her color, it always has been.
She is wearing a mid-length skirt, tight, black, and simple. The toes of her heals are pointed, but not too pointy. Her polo, a more pungent pink than that of the cashmere sweater, has its collar popped and a string of pearls lay subtly across her collarbone. Her denim jacket becomes to warm and she removes it and holds it on the same arm as the sweater.
She walks past more mannequins, does not glance at them this time, and decides that she needs a new pair of jeans. Making a sharp right, she notices the lines of dark denim along the far wall and walks steadily in that direction. She reaches a rack, not quite at the wall, and slips her hand towards the first pair and inspects the tag. No, she’s never been fond of that brand. She looks up, plain-faced. Maybe she does not want to shop for jeans today. She’s not in the mood for the fitting rooms, and besides, she needs a friend to tell her, honestly, how they look. Jeans are too much for an impromptu shopping trip. Maybe another sweater?
She moves on, looking from rack to rack discerningly. A sales woman stands in the middle of the floor, her arms down. As she approaches her the woman asks, “can I help you with anything today?”
“Just browsing, thanks,” with a smile. She did intend on just browsing, but the cashmere is incredible. One more sweater can’t hurt, besides, she’s been so good with her credit card lately. She moves on.
The sweaters on these racks aren’t her at all. They’re rough and pilled and unshapely. The colors are too dull, too bright, or too weathered. These are all wrong. Her phone rings. She transfers her jacket and the sweater to her other arm and rifles through her bag. Finally, she finds it.
“Hello? Hi, I’m in Century… no, nothing major, I just need some new sweaters. Yeah, I know. I hate shopping by myself. Ok, yeah. Right. I’ll call you later. Bye, babe.” She closes the phone with a snap.
She’s frustrated now. She looks back towards the entrance. These sweaters won’t do and she can’t get another cashmere sweater, certainly not the same one in another color, that would be too… common. She puts her phone back in her handbag and turns to the entrance. Maybe she doesn’t want another sweater, certainly not one of these. But the pink one is perfect, she glances down at it. Yes, it is. She moves the sweater to her free arm and walks towards the register.
She waits behind a woman smelling too strongly of old perfume. She turns her toes inwards and glances around at nothing. “Next.”
“Hi,” she says with a half smile.
“Find everything okay today?” the clerk asks without really caring for an answer.
“Yes, thanks.” She passes her credit card between two fingers to the clerk. They wait for it to process. The machine spits out a receipt.
“Sign here?” the clerk says, as though it were a question.
She rests her bag and jacket on the counter and bends over to sign the small piece of paper.
“Thank you, have a great day.” The clerk hands her the yellow copy and looks behind her… “next.”
She gathers the bag and walks towards the door where the security guard still stands. She stops just before the steps and sets the shopping back at her feet. She puts her denim jacket back on and arranges the collar of her polo so the pink peaks just slightly over the dark denim. She lifts the bag, lowers her sunglasses and marches onward. She’s completed her mission. The guard half smiles as she passes. She pushed through the heavy doors and enters into the dull November air of the street.
I continue my shopping, there’s nothing that I want. Her hesitation made me aware of mine. If I were to slide my credit card across the counter, it would be returned and the exchange would be complete, but I would not feel accomplished. I would feel guilty. Nothing her appeals to me right now. I’m not in the mood for shopping and the buzzing of the music is becoming abrasive. I leave the racks, find the path that leads to the back of the store and walk down it in the opposite direction towards the exit. I pass the sales person empty handed, feeling as though I’ve rejected her. I look down, pass the security guard who gives me a sideways glance. My hands are empty and I leave. I hate shopping by myself.
