Too soft.
The leather pants?
Too aggressive.
The white blouse?
Too innocent.
Rejected.Rejected.Rejected.
My fingers brush against a familiar, smooth fabric, and I pull it free from the heap.
My black halter mini dress.
I hold it up.The deep keyhole cutout below the neck is a dare.The elegant gold hardware at the waist, two angled wings, promises structure.
This is not a dress for seduction, nor for blending in.
It’s a statement.
Armor.
With newfound purpose, I begin tidying the office, folding the rejected clothes neatly back into my suitcase.Each folded sweater, each pair of pants returned to its place, feels like clearing away the indecision.
Clearing away the lingering temptation to flee.
I drape the black dress carefully over the back of the couch, my clutch resting next to it, my matching black heels placed precisely on the floor beneath.
All set.
Dressed in my faded blue jeans and white sweater, I slip my feet into my white sneakers and head out to tackle the morning rush with Helen.
The lunch crowd thins.The hours that follow offer no relief.They stretch, impossibly long yet terrifyingly short, each one vibrating with the anxiety of tonight.
Hydra.
James.
The words echo in my head, tethered to the image of the black dress waiting in the office.
My hands wipe counters, pour coffee, take cash.But they feel disconnected.Like a marionette with strings pulled by someone else.The real me is miles away, observing the performance.The forced pleasantries scrape against my throat, each smile feeling brittle enough to shatter.
Someone asks where the restroom is, and I nearly give directions to hell before catching myself, offering a tight nod toward the back instead.
More than once, as I freeze mid-sentence or nearly send a latte flying, Helen materializes beside me.Her calm voice smooths over the cracks in my facade before a customer can notice.Each time she steps in, the rescue is seamless.And each rescue is a painful flare of awareness, a reminder of the tightrope I’m walking and how close I am to falling.
The walls begin to dim as the late afternoon sun dips lower, painting long, distorted shadows across the floor.My gaze keeps catching on the wall clock, tracking the second hand’s agonizing, relentless slow sweep.Each tick feels like a hammer blow counting down.It’s torturously slow, yet the space between now and tonight evaporates like mist.It hurtles at me, an unavoidable collision.
Once the sign is flipped to ‘Closed’, Helen and I work around each other with quiet efficiency, performing the end-of-day rituals.Stacking chairs.Wiping down tables.The final sweep of the floor.The emptying of the bins.Each mundane task feels imbued with a strange, heavy significance tonight.
Battling the frantic energy buzzing beneath my skin, my hands tremble as I count the day’s earnings, forcing myself to start over when the numbers get muddled.
Finally.
Everything is done.
Helen walks to the front door, slinging her purse over her shoulder.“Ready?”
