Эйми Бендер - The Color Master

It disgusted her as she did it, but it was the truth. She certainly liked the image of herself as the benevolent wife with arms full of flowers, but if she bought the flowers she would spend part of the ride home feeling so righteous and pleased that she had bought flowers; what a good wife she was; wasn’t he a lucky man; until, by the time she arrived home with the flowers, she’d be angry he hadn’t bought her flowers.

She reached out a hand to touch the cool sweep of the wall.

“It seems,” she said to it, “that I have lost my generosity.”

Her whole body filled with a sparkling panic, painful and visceral as poison champagne, because she did not know how to get it back.

The grand total on November 8 was $1,245. Daniel paid her the remaining money and gave her a fake sad look that could not disguise his relief, and then trundled off to the bathroom to get ready for work. She ironed the new bills, and packed them all into her tiny pocketbook of black velvet with the glittery clasp. The cash poked out its green fingers and her heels made pointed bites in the cement as she walked down the street, past the stores. She kept opening up the clasp of her purse and sticking her hand in there and stroking the money like it was a fur glove or a child’s hair. What with the angle at which she held her bag and that look on her face, to passersby it seemed vaguely like she was masturbating.

People looked away. It was either that, or stare. She was magnetically disturbing to watch.

She stopped when she reached the mall, big and curvy. She roamed the three floors and mingled with all the people milling about with their big paper shopping bags and worn, drawn faces.

Inside the biggest and fanciest department store, at one end of the mall shops, she walked around the various sections of women’s clothing, and observed all the different desks, and the different sets of salespeople. She watched for almost an hour, noting how each saleswoman interacted with customers, and how she looked, until she settled on the one she liked best. This was in the women’s impulse department. The saleslady was about Janet’s age, a little younger, and had a red velvet ribbon tied neatly around her neck, just like the horror story Janet had once heard about a woman who wears a velvet ribbon around her neck her whole life, every second of every day, until the one night when her curious husband removes it and her head falls off.

“Excuse me,” said Janet, resting her pocketbook on the counter. “I have a question for you.”

“Sure.” The saleslady reupholstered her salesface in seconds. “How can I help you?”

“Do you support yourself?” Janet asked. She smiled, as amiably as she could.

“Pardon me?”

“I know it’s an unusual question, but do you support yourself? Are you self-supported? Financially?”

The saleslady squinched up her nose. “Well,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?”

“And do you have a boyfriend?” Janet took in the bare left ring finger. Then she refixed her eyes on that red ribbon. The more she looked at it, the more it did seem to be glued to the woman’s neck, and the red of the ribbon was the perfect shade to bring out the red in her lips and the brown of her eyes. It was the kind of glorious and simple fashion move you could stare at for hours in admiration.

The saleslady laughed, uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, are you looking for clothes, ma’am? These are fairly personal questions. There’s a sale on pencil skirts on the right.”

“But do you?”

“Why?”

“I’ll look for clothes in a second,” said Janet. “I need a cream turtleneck. Ribbed. Wool. Expensive. I’ll need two, maybe three. But I’m just curious. Do you?”

“Well, yes,” said the saleslady.

“Then, please, let me just ask you a little bit more,” Janet said, leaning on the counter. She hugged her pocketbook into her chest. “It’s for a study. Who talks more?” she asked.

The saleslady narrowed her eyes at Janet, and then relaxed against the cash register. Business was slow; only a few other customers rotated around the perimeter of the department.

“You mean when? Like during dinner?” asked the saleslady.

“Whenever. Sure.”

“Depends on who has more to say that day, I guess.”

“And who pays, if you’re out?”

“We usually split it,” said the saleslady. “We both make about the same salary. Or one will take the other. There’s no rule. What kind of turtleneck? You might want sportswear instead, that’s one floor down. Did you say wool?”

Now, in addition to the ribbon, Janet noticed how the delicate mole punctuating the tip of the saleslady’s eyebrow looked just like Venus at the tip of a crescent moon. Perfection.

“And do you regularly orgasm?” asked Janet.

“Excuse me?”

Janet held still. She could hear the cash registers erupt into sound around them. Printing out receipts over the sounds of pens signing shiny credit card paper that curls into itself.

“Please,” said Janet. “I know it’s very forward, but please. It would mean an enormous amount to me to know.”

The saleslady’s eyes dodged around the store.

“The turtlenecks are downstairs,” she said. “You’d better go down there. There’s a woman downstairs in that department who likes to talk about things like this. You should ask her. Molly. Look for Molly.”

Janet shook her head. “I want to ask you,” she said.

The saleslady was fidgeting all around the cash register now, pushing buttons, ripping tissue paper, as if she were trapped in there.

Janet took a breath. “Look,” she said. “I’m sure I seem crazy, but I’m not. I just don’t know what it’s like for other people. I live a sheltered life. Do you keep track? I don’t want to ask Molly, because I don’t want to be like Molly. This will be my last question, honestly.”

Janet fumbled in her purse and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills.

“I’ll pay you,” she said firmly.

The saleslady stared at the bills and balled the ripped tissue paper into hard pellets.

“Two hundred dollars?” She glanced over her shoulder. “For one question? Are you serious?”

Janet didn’t even blink.

The saleslady’s eyebrows crunched in, and the mole pulled closer to her temple.

“It’s for a study?”

A nod. “A self-study.”

“And then you’ll stop?”

Another nod.

“And are you a member of this store?”

Janet rummaged in her wallet and this time produced a bronze store credit card.

“Well,” the saleslady said, bobbing her head tightly, “if it’s worth that much to you. Fairly regularly, yes. What would you call regular?”

“Majority of the time,” Janet said.

“Fine, then,” said the saleslady. “Majority of the time. About seventy percent, through one method or another. Easier on some days than others. I don’t keep track, no. Better off the pill than on. Nicer for me at night than in the morning. Now. Done! The turtlenecks are that way.”

Her face was flushed. The red ribbon matched, in perfect harmony, the blush high on her cheeks.

Janet thrust the bills forward and held herself back from taking the woman’s hand and kissing it.

“Thank you.” She felt her eyes watering. “You are really very beautiful.” The yearning in her voice was so palpable it caught them both by surprise.

The saleslady stared at the money and broke into uncomfortable giggles before she grabbed it and strode off into the suit section. The older, blonder manager meandered over from across the room, sensing a need for managerial skills.

“Can I help you?” she asked Janet, now standing alone at the register.

“I need a turtleneck,” said Janet.