Kate Zambreno - Green Girl

To last throughout her shift she escapes outside of her body and lets it do all the work. She asks woman after woman, all strutting by like robins in their winter wear, if they would like to sample Desire. Desire? Desire? She is on repeat. The silver is starting to wear off, sparkly silver on her hands, the glitter buried deep in her palm. Angry women swinging their angry purses. Holding the hands of British children, freakishly precocious like tiny adults.

Sometimes she is struck by the sense that she is someone else’s character, that she is saying someone else’s lines.

At the end of her day her throat is dry from her constant spiel. Her feet and her calves ache from standing. Her cheeks ache from pretend smiling. The very top of her second finger on her right hand, the uppermost joint, aches from pressing up and down, up and down.

Point. Squirt. Hand. Point. Squirt. Hand.

(My Ruth. I write on her bored.)

The piped-in sounds of pop music. Manufactured, packaged, digestable. A song by the starlet whose perfume she’s shilling. Cooing sultry come-ons, breathless promises. On a track, repeating over and over again. The landscape of shopper’s ringtones. Music that’s not music. The buzzing and the coo. Ruth has swallowed all of these noises. She doesn’t even notice them anymore.

The horrible head sometimes walks by and snaps his thick sausages in her face. Look alive. He doesn’t even say her name. She is nameless. She is an unknown. He had begun to walk by her station just to see whether she was awake, to the delight of the terrible girls. You should be offering Desire to everyone who walks through that door. He points at the door, and then points at the globe carelessly cupped in her hand. The world that exists inside her sweaty numbing palm.

You’re a salesgirl. You’re supposed to be selling. Are we clear? Ruth smiles blankly. In a fog. Not there. Not really there. Watch her, he points at Noncy, who throws up her hands at him. Ruth imagines her pulling him aside. Those temps, they’re not too bright you see. They’re only temporary.

Poor Ruth, parroting away like an automaton. Ruth feels tremulous handing out the sticks of scented paper, uncertain, passive. Desire, would you care to? Desire?

She is now supposed to squeak out, Have you ever experienced Desire? The horrible head recently came up with this. But she only does it when he is around, watching her.

Have you ever experienced Desire?

During dead stretches of time she fantasizes about the past the forbidden.

I can see us, fighting like wet cats, clawing at each other, on the street unable to help ourselves, in front of your car, you unable to drive away, in bed at the latest hour, the birds beginning their appeal, knowing the next day to be already ruined. We would suck on each other’s mouths as if to drag the life from each other.

The green girl necessarily pines for the past, because the present is too uncomfortable to be present in and the future, unimaginable. The need to long, to desire that which she cannot have, that which has eluded her, because she deceives herself that it was this person, this chance, where she would have found happiness. It would have been this boy, this ordinary boy with his ordinary cruelty, who would have unlocked the key to herself, a self mysterious even to her. The One and there is only ever One so if you missed out, sad for you.

I can see you, red chapped elbows propped up against my pillow, cigarette between lips like a bemused farmhand with his blade of grass.

Have you ever experienced Desire?

She felt ridiculous saying this, like she should be selling herself on

late-night TV.

Their job was to sell, sell, sell. There was no official script, officially. All in the delivery. Forceful, yet knowing when not to push too hard. Tell them whatever they would like to hear. The best salesgirl is a liar. The best salesgirl talks a fast game, and isn’t afraid to switch tactics when it isn’t working. The best salesgirl sizes up the customer and feeds their ego.

would you like to try?

you won’t regret it.

just a second of your time.

you look lovely today.

it’s a lovely scent

a brilliant fragrance

brilliant brilliant

now take a deep breath

let it draw you in

it’s a bit fruity, isn’t it?

flowery

so pretty and so French

musky

peppery

quite sensual don’t you think

warm and spicy and Oriental

an elixir for the senses

it’s a greener note

do you smell the licorice?

you just want to eat it don’t you?

and guess what? no calories!

but if you really want it to last you’re going to have to layer it you know

oh, you must layer it

do you layer?

first the shower gel

then the soufflé

feel that how creamy indulgent

indulge yourself

then the perfume

make sure to spray it on your errr-ahh-jenus zones

it will never leave you

it will linger with you all day

when he smells this he will remember you

always

in another country

years later

it will be your signature scent

it isn’t just a perfume but an identity.

a woman’s pure essence

found in an oval-shaped bottle

mimicking her curves

for the woman who

wants love

is playful

is sexy

wants it all

has a strong sense of self

it’s so classic!

timeless!

it’s so modern!

the embodiment of

femininity

old-fashioned glamour

audrey

katharine

sophia

marilyn

this is the fragrance for the

trendsetter

the intellectual

the person who loves beauty

who loves little children

who loves animals

sweet things

sex

who loves to fall in love

who wants to be young

who wants to be sophisticated

who wants to be noticed

across a room but not smelled, more like sensed

It was all porn for impressionable women. Beyond the talk of top velvety notes and powdery cores and layering. The fairytale drivel, the poisonous romance narratives. Peddling in clichés. A love potion of sweet temptation. A fantasy of indulgence. Cue the symphony, the sunset as the backdrop for lovers. Or perhaps you’d like an essence more mysterious. The kind that’s subtle. That lingers in the room after the lady has left. A passing moment. A memory. A story.

It comes in a bottle and it tells a story. Put it on my Visa.

So, I took another pregnancy test. Natalie leans in closer to Ruth, so close that Ruth can see her black lacy bra. Negative, thank heavens. Her breath smells like tuna. Every day at 1pm Natalie goes to the sandwich place across the road, to get triangles of mushy wheat bread with ominous fillings. Half-off between 1pm and 2pm. Egg pickle with rocket, egg mayo with rocket, tuna mayo with rocket, prawn mayo with rocket. Ruth fights the urge not to gag. Even though they are alone in the employee room, Natalie is practically sitting on Ruth’s lap. Ruth keeps attempting to pry herself away, although bit by bit, so as not to appear rude. The passivity of the green girl masquerades as politeness.

Aren’t you on the shot? Ruth asks. By now she is intimately acquainted with Natalie’s reproductive regime (which usually required total-if-not-complete abstinence). Natalie’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. She leans in closer, her pendulous breasts pressing against Ruth’s arm. Her chest powdered with scented silver glitter. Yes, but my hubby and I had sex, lower whisper, two weeks ago and I haven’t gotten my thing yet. Ruth has seen Natalie’s husband come to collect her from work, a goofy tower of Englishness. Are you late? No, no, not yet. I just get soooo scared. If I got pregnant I would absolutely die. Just shrivel up. Her thickly coated eyelashes tick like the hands of a clock.