“Ma’am, should I walk you to the door?” the salesgirl said with a sneer, measuring me from my shoes to my hair. “These clothes aren’t exactly meant for retirees. Maybe you’d be more comfortable at a flea market.”
I was standing beside the display of dresses, my handbag in one hand and my jacket hanging from my shoulder. Behind the counter, the young woman looked at me as if I were something unpleasant she had found in her lunch.
“I’m only browsing,” I replied evenly.
“Sure. Just browsing.” She gave a little snort. “I know the type. You’ll try on half the store, wrinkle everything, and leave without buying a thing. This is a boutique, you understand? Not a thrift shop.”
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight. Tight black dress, glossy manicure, and a face arranged into permanent superiority. The name tag on her chest read: Brittany.
A thought crossed my mind, quiet and almost amusing: she had no idea that, a month earlier, I had purchased not only this boutique but the entire building it occupied. At that very moment, she was being rude to her employer.
“May I see the new arrivals?” I asked, gesturing toward a rack of dresses.
“The new arrivals?” Brittany strolled along the display, fussing with hangers as if I had asked for diamonds. “Ma’am, are you sure? These pieces are expensive. Very expensive. Maybe you should start in the clearance section. There are simpler things back there.”
I stepped closer and lifted a blue dress from the rack. The fabric felt smooth under my fingers, silk-like and cool, and the cut was timeless. It was a well-made piece.
“How much is this one?” I asked.
Brittany glanced at the tag and smirked.
“Seven hundred fifty dollars,” she drawled. “But there’s really no point in looking at it. It’s obviously out of your range.”
I said nothing. I kept the dress in my hands, studied the seams, checked the finishing, and ran my thumb along the stitching. It was worth the price. In fact, it could have been priced higher.
“I’d like to try it on,” I said.
“Seriously?” Brittany arched one eyebrow. “You do understand that if you stain it or tear it, you’ll have to pay for it, right? Store policy. Nobody is going to just forgive seven hundred fifty dollars.”
“I understand,” I answered with a nod.
“Well, fine.” She shrugged as though granting me a favor. “Suit yourself. But if you already know you’re not buying it, say so now. Don’t waste my time. My lunch break is coming up.”
She slipped the dress off the hanger and handed it over carelessly, as if she were passing me a rag.
“Fitting room’s over there,” she said, nodding toward the corner. “And be careful with the zipper. It’s Italian. Delicate.”
I took the dress and went into the fitting room. After closing the door, I undressed and put it on. It fit as though it had been tailored for me. The blue brought out my eyes, the shape softened what needed softening, and the length was exactly right. I turned in front of the mirror, looking at myself from one side and then the other. It was a beautiful dress. Quality work. Worth every dollar.
When I came out, Brittany was seated behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and chewing gum. She didn’t even look up.
“Well?” I asked.
Only then did she lazily raise her eyes. Her gaze traveled over me with bored assessment.
“I mean… it’s not terrible,” she said slowly. “For your age, it works, I guess. Though honestly, the neckline is a little much. Once a woman hits fifty, she should stop trying so hard. Neck wrinkles don’t exactly add charm, you know.”
I am fifty-four. Yes, I have wrinkles. I’m not ashamed of them. I earned them. Every line on my face came from work, experience, losses, victories, and years I survived with my head held high.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Brittany set the magazine aside and straightened in her chair.
“Really?” The surprise in her voice was too sharp to hide. “You do know how much it costs, don’t you?”
“Seven hundred fifty dollars,” I repeated. “Yes, I know.”
She stood and came closer, narrowing her eyes as she studied me with sudden curiosity.
“Huh,” she murmured. “And how exactly are you planning to pay? In installments from your Social Security check? Or did your grandkids all chip in?”
I opened my handbag, took out a card, and placed it on the counter.
“With this.”
Brittany picked it up and turned it between her fingers. When she noticed the black plastic and the premium banking logo, she let out a soft, mocking laugh.
“Oh, a black card,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Let me guess—you found yourself a rich husband? Or maybe some sugar daddy is helping you out?”
Then her mouth twisted as if she had thought of something even crueler to say.