Page 7 of Lust

“Delilah,” I whisper to the blouse, “you get in the back of the row, honey. That’s the price for fucking another woman’s husband. You get to hang out with the fat girls in the back.”

They haven’t actually fucked yet, or at least that’s what their messages suggest. But I know it’s only a matter of time. No one talks to someone that way if they don’t actually intend to lick each other’s assholes. With a sigh, I hang a pair of charcoal wool trousers. Delilah’s asshole probably smells like roses. That’s probably where he’ll start, and then he’ll take his time from there, exploring every inch of her flawless skin.

“Carol, honey, you okay?” Manuel’s voice makes me jump. It still takes me a second to register that he’s talking to me. Even though I’ve been using the name for fourteen years, I can’t seem to get used to it.

“Clearly not okay!” His eyes widen as he takes in my face. “What can I do?”

“Why?” I step closer to him and whisper, “do I look like I’ve been crying?”

“No.” He frowns. “You look like you want to cut a bitch, and you just hung a pair of men’s slacks in the women’s section.” He lifts my chin with a long, delicate finger. “Have you been crying?”

My chin quivers, giving me away despite my shaking head. With a deft swipe of his handkerchief, Manuel dabs the corners of my eyes.

“If Gary’s on your ass again, I swear…”

But there’s nothing he can do about Gary. I told Manuel once, early on, that Gary suggested sexual favors could get me ahead in this job. He was ready to march with pitchforks right to HR. But I can’t afford to find another job right now, not with bills piling up and my husband pissing our money away.

“Not Gary.” The lie sends a twinge of guilt through my stomach. “It’s my husband.”

Manuel’s eyes darken, lids lowering over the dark brown. “What did that motherfucker do now?”

“I don’t even think he’s done anything yet. Beyond talking and flirting, anyway.” A sniff escapes, and Manuel hands me his handkerchief.

“Leave the asshole, Carol. He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t have any idea what kind of a gem he has for a wife.” He takes half of the remaining garments from my hands and nods toward the next set of racks. Sighing, I follow him. If Gary catches us socializing, he’ll haul me into his office for yet another scolding, and he’ll probably grab my ass this time. We have to look busy, even during the midday slump.

“So some bitch wants to take your nasty husband off your hands.” Manuel hangs a long green chiffon dress on the rack, and I slide a peach-colored version in nearby. “Good riddance. Don’t waste another tear on him.”

Pausing near a mannequin, he fingers the soft fabric of her flowing green blouse.

“This would look great on you, honey. Why not treat yourself to a little wardrobe upgrade and come out with me for karaoke Friday night?” He turns around, one eyebrow raised. “I know you love to sing…”

A bitter laugh burns my throat. If only he knew. “I’ll consider it.”

With a pat to the mannequin’s butt, Manuel moves on to a display of cashmere sweaters.

“We’re still on for the Christmas talent show, right?” He carefully folds a sweater over his arm before setting it on top of the pile.

“Yeah.” I struggle with a dress made from a bunch of zippers bound together with minimal fabric in between. It’s a jumble of teeth and threads and won’t stay on the hanger. I shove the bunched up garment onto the nearest rack.

With a laugh, Manuel pulls it off again and deftly organizes the straps into the right configuration so the dress drapes on its hanger like it’s a runway model. He holds it up to my body and whistles, a low sound. “I take back what I said about that blouse back there.” He smiles slyly. “Treat yourself to this dress. You’d blow everyone away. You should wear it for the talent show.”

“Yeah right,” I scoff. “First of all, I’m sure I don’t have—” a quick glance at the price tag turns my eyes to saucers, “five hundred dollars to spend on something I’d wear only once. And second,” I take the dress and press it against myself so it follows the curves of my breasts and belly, “I’d look like someone wrapped a marshmallow in rubber bands and paperclips. The bar would pay me to leave so I don’t scare off their customers.”

“Stop being mean to my friend.” Manuel snatches the dress out of my hand and returns it to the rack. “Don’t you dare say those nasty things to Carol about her gorgeous body.”

His kind words pull a smile from my gloom. “I don’t deserve you, Manny.” Standing on my tiptoes, I give him a little peck on the cheek.

“Honey, you deserve better than me. What you DON’T deserve is Mr. Has-Been Football Player treating you like shit and then sneaking around with some other bitch while you’re here working your fingers to the bone.” He hangs a dove-gray coat with a flourish, wiggling his long fingers in emphasis.

Noticing my chin start to quiver again, he swiftly shakes his head. “No you don’t, Carol, honey. Do not give that man any more energy today. Let’s play first to sell the ugly duckling. Fifty bucks to the winner.” With a wink, he strides off toward the men’s section as a couple enters through the exterior doors.

The ugly duckling, a fluorescent fuchsia raincoat, looms on a display in front of them. I watch the couple give it a wide berth as they pass, as though they can feel its pinkness radiating toward them.

Just you wait. You’ll learn to love it before I’m through with you.

But even as I launch into my favorite workplace diversion, the thought of Delilah pops back into my head. She’d look dynamite in that pink raincoat. With a sigh, I walk toward the couple.

“Can I help you find anything in particular today? Maybe I can interest you in some of our fashion-forward choices?”

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