Lila steps out of her dressing room, sees me watching strangers, and raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head.
She goes back inside.
The man says something I can't hear. The woman responds with another deadpan assessment. He grins like she just told him he's perfect.
Strange dynamic.
Lila's voice comes from the dressing room. "This one also won't zip."
"Need help?" I move toward the curtain.
"No, I can—wait, actually yes. The zipper is impossible this time."
I step inside. She's twisted around, arms behind her back, trying to reach. The dress is stuck halfway.
"Here." I find the zipper and slide it up. Slow.
"Thanks," she says, breathless.
I lean close. My lips hover near her ear. "You know, I could lock the door. Take you right here against that mirror."
Her face flushes red. "Ivan?—"
"No one would stop us."
"There are people?—"
"I don't care about people." My hands find her hips. "I care about you in this dress."
She sighs. Half protest, half want.
I step back to give her space. "Think about it. You’ll love it."
I leave the dressing room, letting her compose herself.
And find the man standing right next to me. No warning. Just suddenly there. Too close. Breaking unspoken rules about personal space.
"Hey there." His tone is casual. Friendly. Completely uninvited. “Nice little place here, huh?”
I study him, younger than I thought from a distance. Early thirties. Expensive suit that fits too perfectly—the kind of fit that comes from wearing them since childhood. Old money accustomed to expensive fabric.
Small talk. I don't want or need a stranger inserting himself into my afternoon or our private space.
"Chances are," he continues, because apparently he doesn't understand social cues, "I'm either getting the most memorable shopping trip ever or getting slapped. Maybe both." He pauses. "Sorry. Gambler's mouth. Forgets boundaries sometimes."
Talkative. This guy's strangely talkative.
"People here don't usually admit to gambling," I say, testing.
"Yeah, well, one of the things I learned a while back was to stop giving a shit what people think." He glances at the woman. "Though lately I've been questioning that rule.Giving a shit about at least one person seems important. You know?"
I don't respond. Most people fill silence. They can't help themselves. Nerves always kick in.
He does. "Recent development. Very recent. Turns out, having someone who doesn't blow smoke up your ass is refreshing."
"Is that your wife?" I ask. He's not leaving. I might as well direct this conversation somewhere.
