She disappears into the fitting room, pulling the curtain across, and I head back to the front. A quick glance outside reveals Amada, sitting in the front seat of her Jetta looking like she’s having an argument with herself, when, in fact, she’s probably screaming at her boyfriend via Bluetooth.
“All right.” Odessa emerges from the dressing room a minute later, the gown placed perfectly on its hanger. She carries it toward the rack, and I’m silently appreciative as most of our customers leave the fitting rooms a muddle of chaos for us to clean. “Now that that’s out of my system ...”
She re-hangs the gown and dusts her hands before turning her back to the display, like it was a quick fix, a little bump to tide her over.
“Are you an earrings girl?” I point to a display in the corner.
Odessa frowns, tugging at her left ear lobe. “I’m not pierced. I have this thing with needles …”
“Well, you’re in luck because I have an entire tray over here of costume clip-ons,” I say, waving her over. “The good kind.”
She follows me, and I retrieve the tray from the bottom shelf of the display behind the counter.
“We haven’t marked these to sell yet, and they’re not technically on the floor, but I’ll give you an exclusive sneak peek.” I give her a wink. I like this chick—and that says a lot because I don’t really like anyone.
“You sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to get you in trouble …”
“My bosses are out of town.” I shake my head like it’s no big deal even though it kind of is. The store is covered in cameras that are connected to a remote system my bosses can view from their smart phones 24/7. But as long as I don’t sell any of these, I should be fine. I’d hate to let a pair go for eighty dollars when they were supposed to sell for two or three times that. “Here. Try these on.”
I hand her a pair of polished lace agate earrings, massive and button-shaped, and then I slide a small mirror on an antique silver pedestal closer to her.
Outside Amada is still fighting with her boyfriend, only now she’s slicking on her signature red-orange lipstick using her visor mirror, blotting her lips together before continuing to give him the what-for.
If you ask me, their problems began the day she let him move in with her. I’m not old-fashioned in the slightest, but the second you invite someone into your sacred space, the entirety of your relationship shifts. The dynamic is different. You’re now sharing rent and household duties, settling into married-couple routines. And once you start sharing a bathroom, sex is never the same.
These are the things I try to explain to Sean whenever he goes on one of his kicks about moving in together. He has a habit of putting numbers on things.
“We’ve been dating almost five years now …”
“You’d save seven hundred and eighty-five dollars a month …”
“We should buy a house together … tax deductions …”
But his arguments fall on deaf ears.
I’m not ready to live with him, and for some insane reason—love, I suppose—the man stays with me anyway. He’s always been a hopeful type. He has enough optimism for the both of us, even if it’s slightly misplaced and unwarranted.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my thirty-five years, it’s that the best things in life are almost always fleeting and impermanent. The sooner a person accepts that, the sooner they can prepare for the inevitable. Nothing wrong with wearing a parachute around your heart. A day will come when the plane’s going to tumble from the sky in flames, and I’m going to have to jump—so why not be prepared?
Without warning, the front door flies open, and Amada stamps in, muttering something under her breath in Spanish. Her petite stature and delicate features make it impossible to take her anger seriously some days.
“Everything okay?” I ask, pointing with my eyes toward Odessa so she’s aware we have a customer.
Amada catches my drift and stops in her tracks, smoothing her dark glossy hair and clearing her throat.
“I could kill him,” she mouths before strangling the air, her hands shaped into claws.
I don’t ask her what Alejandro did this time because I don’t want to be here for the next forty-five minutes—unpaid. Also, whatever he did, I’m sure it’s no different than the thing he did the last time and the last time … and the time before that.
“You going to be all right?”
She rolls her eyes as if to say, “I’m here, aren’t I?” But I don’t take it personally. I know her frustration is aimed at her one true love …
“Okay,” I say. “You let me know if you need anything.”
I fetch my bag and leftover can of Royal Crown from the back room and head for the front door before Amada has a chance to stop me and sit me down for story hour. We’re not supposed to come and go through the front, but when the owners aren’t here we bend the rules a bit. Parking in the back lot is a bitch—not to mention parking is ten bucks a day, which adds up.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” I stop short of the doorway to bid Odessa adieu before I leave.
She glances up, oblivious for a second, and then her gaze focuses on me. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were leaving.”
I offer an apologetic wince. “Tuesdays are my half days. If there’s anything else you need, Amada will be happy to assist you.”
Her gaze travels to my colleague, who despite being polished and presentable, still retains the crazy eyes of someone in the midst of having a mental lover’s quarrel.
“I should probably be on my way, as well,” she says, sliding a pair of emerald and resin clip-ons from her lobes and placing them gently on the tray. Checking the radiant timepiece on her lithe wrist, she says nothing, adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and follows me out.
The midday sun beats down from a cloudless sky and a blanket of Palm Shores humidity wraps around us as we pound the exclusive Arcadia Avenue pavement, Odessa with her long-legged stride and click-clacking heels and me in my noiseless secondhand Demi Kitterman ballet flats that have seen better days.
“I can’t stop thinking about that dress,” she says with a slight chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear.
“I’m happy to hold it in the back for a few days, if you want more time to think about it?”
We stop half a block from the shop, where my fifteen-year-old Accord looks out of place amongst the shiny black, white, and silver luxury imports that line the street. They say Palm Shores is the Range Rover capital of the world, but I’m beginning to think Bentleys are on the cusp of dethroning them.
“No, I shouldn’t,” she says with a wave. Odessa shifts on her feet, facing me, lingering like she isn’t ready to go.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t weird me out.
I’d also be lying if I said it didn’t flatter me.
I’ve been a ghost for thirty-five years. Not in the literal sense, of course, but in the sense that people can feel my presence but they never see me. They only ever look through me. I can’t count how many times doors aren’t held open for me, how many times people cut me in line or block the ancient grains aisle at Great Earth Food Market with their overstuffed shopping carts and pretend not to hear me clear my throat or notice that I smiled politely and said, “Excuse me” like a decent human being.