Girl

Say you’re a “Sales Assistant”. You work at Macys and a man just handed you his credit card and told you to “ring it up!” He holds up the sport coat, it’s plaid and it’s ugly, and it’s going on sale in the morning, and you talked him into buying it.

You need the commission. Your boyfriend sits on the couch all day, getting stoned, not lifting a finger, ever.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Hinkle!” you say, all cheery and eighteen, your long blond hair working, you’re dimples dimpling, and you might even wiggle your fingers in the air at the last moment before he departs, or seems to be about to depart, but doesn’t… quite… make it out the door—he turns. He might even take a step in your direction.

Mr. Hinkle looks into you, down deep, into something so private; maybe it’s your soul he’s viewing.

He comes back toward you. He holds the sport coat wrapped in cellophane over his arm like he’s forgotten about it.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks and you think of the jerk you live with sitting on the couch getting stoned. This man may be too old for you, but, you’re poor and he’s rich, and you already know you have no morals.

“You have a nice day, Mr. Hinkle,” you say and watch him leave, and wonder why you do the things you do.

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