The Shop Girl

VOLUME TWO

A SHORT STORY

A single file line of smoke snaked through the cracked window, traveled up the exterior of Melanie Sinclair’s bungalow and slowly exhausted itself into the darkness that existed beyond the front door light fixture. Melanie always devoured the anticipated last drag of her cigarette, being intentional with the inhale. The smoke engorged her lungs and released itself through her full lips. Her nightly routine strictly stated that she was only allowed a half cigarette. She would sit on the worn yellow cushion that lived on the half window seat facing the overgrown courtyard - strip down to a pair of heather gray boy shorts and a ribbed viscose tank that hugged her curves too tightly around the mid-section. Her coiled hair was always pulled back in a low loose ponytail and her face was freshly washed, glowing from anti-aging serums. She would randomly look down to admire her breast between inhales, grateful that they could carry their weight and hold themselves up in a thin tank. She never considered herself a smoker, so she wasn’t equipped with the proper tools. She lit her cigarettes with the extended lighter that was designated for igniting expensive candles and her ashtray was a vintage ceramic egg holder that she inherited from a past roommate. It was the only thing that survived after their ten-year friendship blew up into a million pieces when Simone walked out the door using recycled grocery bags as luggage. After she smoked half of the cigarette, she would squash the other half into the ceramic egg holder, leave it outside on the mantle, close the window, secure the latch and slightly tug on the window to make sure it was locked.

"Fuck!" mumbled an embarrassed pedestrian while stumbling across the uneven pavement on the sidewalk. I watched him quickly recover by brushing his hands down the front of his shirt while looking around to see if anyone saw his near fall. I witnessed the whole incident from the huge window of the boutique. When we locked eyes, I immediately began to straighten the already perfectly dressed mannequin and silently added one more number to the list of victims. "Eleven,” I mouthed. People watching was a perk of my day. During slow mornings, I stare out the window and observe people living their lives - wondering where they’re headed. After a while, even this became boring, so I started counting the number of people that would trip over the raised sidewalk. Countless numbers of people looking down on their phones, talking with friends or looking up trying to decipher their current destination, were all prime candidates. My phone began to vibrate against my hip, and I was immediately taken out of my state of wonder by a text message.

Amanda: Hi Love, those pieces you suggested didn't work...in a panic!!!!! Leaving for London tmrw...have nothing to wear...be there in 10!!!!

Melanie: My apologies Amanda. I can fix this - will pull new looks for you.

Amanda: Let's discuss...clearly your first choices didn't work...I NEED to be involved (shocked cat face emoji)

Melanie: Of course, see you soon (no fucking emoji because there is not an emoji to describe your insanity)

This was typical behavior for Amanda Richardson, she's my top client at the boutique. It’s never just one visit with her, but multiple visits that involves making decisions, editing already edited pieces and in this case, starting from scratch because she was most likely self-medicated when she came in the first time and requested all the wrong items. Her ten-minute ETA really means an hour which will give me plenty of time to game plan and calm down before I have to attend another production of, 'I was wrong and you're a fucking genius, season five - episode two'.

***

"Amaaanda, so good to see you," I squealed. "You look amazing, I swear every time I see you, you look thinner. Do I have to pull smaller sizes?"

I know the words to this song by heart and sang it every time Amanda walked through the door.

"Stop it, I have not changed a thing. You are too kind. I feel like I gained two pounds. Our chef prepared this indulgent dinner last night and I just could not stop eating," said Amanda as she placed her hand over her cool sculpted abs. "I am so lucky to have help, I do not know how people do it themselves. I could not live without my help. Perfect example, how can I come here without you. So, what do you have for me today?” Amanda clapped her hands with excitement like a toddler. "Show me, show me, shoooow me!"

I placed thousand-dollar silk blouses, even more expensive dresses and the softest lamb leather pants on the brushed nickel racks in the expansive VIP fitting room behind the mirrored partitions. I hurried off to the back to return with plush cashmere sweaters, over-the-knee fitted suede boots, a pair of four-inch strappy heels and a grained calfskin handbag to complete the looks. Amanda stripped down to her Eres lingerie and tried on each ensemble that I meticulously arranged on the racks. I arrange the tops first, followed by all the bottoms, then I place the dresses last. All the shoe options were placed on the low shelf underneath the rack, and I arrange them in order from flats, to heels, to boots. The accessories go on the oversized velvet tray. The bags are arranged on the racks opposite the clothes on brushed nickel S hooks. I stand between the racks along with Amanda so I can have access to both racks and the accessories tray on the podium. My system is planned perfectly and is aesthetically pleasing. Every client takes my presentation for granted. In all my eight years at the boutique, only one client would always tell me how much she appreciated my efforts to make the clothes look better – I loved assisting Betty Grayson. She died last season.

Once Amanda surveyed herself in the mirror and offered her approval by pouting her injected lips while tilting her head to the right, she slid off the clothes, let them fall to the floor, kicked them slightly to the left, and moved on to the next look. I knew the drill, I would scoop up the chosen pieces, rearranged them back on the hangers to place them in her yes pile. Every time we got to the shoes, she would have an emergency text or phone call. She plops down on the chaise, extend her leg, and I get down on one knee to place the shoes on her perfectly manicured feet.

“How am I supposed to know these things Richard – question mark - that is why I pay yoooou – exclamation point – this is unacceptable and I will not tolerate this behavior - exclamation point - exclamation point," Amanda dictated to her phone.

It’s days like this that makes me question my sanity. I’m on my knees placing shoes on Amanda’s fucking feet while she lounges comfortably, speaking text into her phone.

This isn’t the vision that the ancestors had for me. Amanda looked down at the strappy heels and gave me a thumbs up along with a mouthed “love”. Why is she mouthing to me, she’s texting not talking on the phone.

“Sorry Love, that was my private Pilates instructor. He is always hounding me to book a session. Now where were we – can we try the shoes again? I was so distracted.”

“Of course. Yes, let’s retry the last two pairs of boots!” I agreed.

I unpacked the boots and had Amanda try them on again. The plush carpet had fossilized my left knee and it let out a shrieking cracking sound to announce its discomfort.

“Do you work out?” asked Amanda. She began to survey my body.

“On occasion,” I replied. “How often do you work out Amanda?”

Seriously, where is this going? I don’t need her instructor to give me private lessons.

“I try to work out at least four to six times a week, but I just get so busy. My life is filled with so many important tasks. You should really try to work out on a regular schedule Melanie. I mean you just have this job; you could easily fit in a Pilates session. I can give you Richard’s number, he is the best. Everybody wants him, he is the go-to private instructor.”

"Um, I think I'm good Amanda. I'm not really into Pilates. I like more athletic workouts like spinning. Sometimes I play tennis too.”

“Tennis! I have a tennis pro! Dennis is the best. It is so ridiculous that his name is Dennis, and he instructs tennis,” laughed Amanda. “I believe he changed his name; can you imagine? Where do you play?”

“I go to the courts in my neighborhood. When my friend Lisa is available, we play on Sundays.”

“You play at a public court? No, no, no, you must come to the club and play there. I can set it up and get you in with Dennis for tennis,” she nearly falls off the chaise with laughter. “I can never say that with a straight face. It is too funny.”

“There’s no need, thank you so much but I’ll stick to my public court. I like it there!”

“Absolutely not. You do not have to pretend with me Melanie. We are friends! Let me do this for you. I really want to – I can also set up lunch for us,” says Amanda and grabs her phone. “What the actual fuck!” Amanda mumbles under her breath. Her whole-body shifts and stiffens. The entitled look on her face melts into disappointment. She seems childlike, vulnerable and broken.

“Is everything ok, Amanda?” I asked.

“We need champagne. Bring the whole bottle and not just a glass,” she demands with the flick of her wrist. “Of course, I’ll be right back.”

I have never seen Amanda in this state. I wondered what the text read that made her so, human. When I returned with the champagne service tray, Amanda was crying on the chaise in her underwear.

“Amanda, is there something I can do for you? Is there someone I can call?” I asked with a look of genuine concern on my face.

“I have no one, I have nothing,” sobbed Amanda.

She sat up and wrapped her cashmere coat around her fragile body. She grabs the glass of champagne and finished off the glass, reaching it back out for me to pour more.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked in hesitation.

Amanda gave me a surprised look and clutched her coat tighter.

“Can we?” Amanda asked. “I am never sure if people are nice to me because I have a lot of money or if they really have concern about my well-being.”

“Amanda, you never have to question that with me. I’m genuinely concerned about you right now and I would love to help in any way I can,” I mimicked her head tilt.

“You cannot help me. No one can help me, I am so…” Amanda took a sip of her champagne and stopped talking.

She looked down at her half empty glass. “Who needs a glass,” sobbed Amanda. She chugged the rest of the champagne from her glass, reached for the bottle and began to drink from it. “Why do you work here?” Amanda asked turning towards me but not giving me a chance to answer. “You are so pretty. You can still marry well. How old are you?”

“I’m 40.” I answered.

Hearing my voice say those words out loud, came with a flashback of regrets. I’m not sure if it was my frustration or if I just didn’t care anymore, but I grabbed the champagne bottle from Amanda. She willingly handed over the bottle and nodded her head for encouragement to take a long sip as she rubbed my back in circular motions.

“Wow! That is amazing. Who do you go to for work? It looks so natural,” Amanda surveyed her index finger along my cheek.

“I don’t have work done. I’m black,” I whispered and took a sip from the bottle.

Amanda leaned closer to me, and we both began laughing a quiet opened mouth, but no sound coming out laugh.

“Okaay, so scratch marriage, you are too old for that but maybe you can start a business. I can fund you a business! I always wanted to be one of those angel investors. Diane talks about her philanthropy all the time. Fuck her!” Amanda pouted. “I can do that for you. What business should we start?” asked Amanda reaching for the champagne bottle.

“Amanda, I don’t want you to start a business for me. Right now, I’m concerned about you,” I expressed and placed my hand on Amanda’s shoulder.

Amanda took a long sip from the bottle, wiped her tears with the sleeve of coat and put on a pair of the shoes she was trying on.

“I will be fine, do NOT worry about me,” she professed and confirmed by throwing her hands up in the air. “Although, I do need to go, I am running late,” Amanda scrunched her dress in her Birkin and belted her coat. "Let us table all of this for now and I will be in touch. I loved these pieces," Amanda gestured to every item in the fitting room. "We got some good stuff here,” said Amanda as she patted her face looking in the mirror and walked out of the fitting room.

I closed the fitting room door after Amanda walked out and tried to process what happened. Does she really want to start a business for me? Am I too old to marry well? I'm definitely charging her for the strappy heels she just stole. Did I just drink after this white woman? I leaned back and welcomed the plush cushion of the chaise – this shit is nice! My reflections from the three-way mirror judged me as I finished the rest of the champagne straight from the bottle. This is my fucking life, one extreme emotion after another one. When I’m not frustrated beyond absolute belief, I’m curled up in a ball crying my eyes out. There must be more for me, this can’t be all there is and if it is, I don’t want this shit anymore. I mimicked Amanda, wiped my eyes, straightened my polyester uniform and walked out the fitting room.

***

My commute was short considering the insane traffic in Los Angeles. I live exactly 29 minutes from work which makes me consistently five minutes late every day. Every morning except on Sundays and Thursdays, my days off, I walk down a crumbled paved alley in thousand-dollar boots avoiding water puddles that are always there even if it doesn’t rain, old coffee cups from the overpriced artisanal coffee shop on the corner and forgotten cardboard boxes that once transported the expensive frocks that I’m expected to sell. I automatically question what I’m doing with my life and why I think I deserve to walk down a pissed ridden alley every day to sell clothes to the city’s elite. At forty, my life was supposed to be different, I was supposed to have it all figured out but instead, I was promoted to Sales Supervisor at the boutique.

My mornings were the same, my entitled store director, Miranda was always fifteen minutes late. Serena, one of the client advisors was “mean” texting her girlfriend and Raul, the other client advisor was stuffing his face with a microwaved breakfast burrito. The rumpled wrapping still secured to the bottom exposing a peek of the Trader Joe’s logo – with every messy slurpy bite he gets a little of the plastic in his mouth. The stock manager, Mike is oblivious to any activity that’s not one foot in front of him. He misses the details of every conversation and begins each sentence with, “What was that?” I really dislike these people, a lot.

I shoved my tote in the top right locker with the broken lock, it never fully closes. Somewhere beyond the crammed break room, that doubles as a kitchen and sometimes as an office, I daydream about Men in Black and wonder if our world is just another random locker in a transit station dimensions away in another galaxy. I place my lunch in the mini fridge. The stench of kombucha and a spoiled banana lingers in the air minutes after I slam the door. The fridge is also home to expensive bottles of French champagne and sparkling water that the staff is never allowed to drink, it’s reserved for the VIP clients. They take small sips and leave full bottles of Perrier throughout the boutique.

Once Miranda walks through the wobbly metal door, the workday officially begins, and she immediately makes boisterous commands.

“Is the register open, did you guys set the floor, where are we on that thing from yesterday?” The questions are never directed towards anyone or complete thoughts. Miranda speaks in retail sound bites to make herself sound relevant. Her gestures hold more weight than her words. She imitates a confident woman, but a milky cast of insecurity is always present, presenting itself as caked-on foundation to conceal her skin’s imperfections.

We gather in the main room of the boutique for the morning meeting. Raul always sits in the vintage Han Wegner chair, Serena straddles the reclaimed wood bench that was purchased from a flea market in Paris, Mike’s spot is the alcove that house oversized art books and I sit on the travertine column that displays leather handbags. Miranda must stand in front of the group to announce her dominance like the alpha male of the pack, but everybody knows she’s just a bitch. The morning meeting consists of the same topics; sales goals, KPIs, useless product knowledge that never trickles down to the clients and Miranda’s sales tip of the day. We gladly offer her blank stares of disinterest as she peacocks her way across the sales floor delivering her message of how to engage with new clients, a message she has shared in various meetings, and it still carries no useful techniques. At the end of every meeting, Miranda spews her corny line, “Let’s get after it!” No one really knows what she means, are we going after sales, clients, commission, or moving cars in the street. Either way, the only thing her slogan delivers is assurance that we have served our fifteen minutes in purgatory, and now we can unwillingly begin another day existing in a space that will never serve me or my co-workers no matter how hard we go after it!

***

I saw Amanda push her way through the door, she was carrying bags from the boutique across the street, her obnoxious yellow Birkin, which she references as ochre, and an iced matcha latte. I stood to observe her, to see what kind of mood she was in, was she happy, excited, upset, or entitled. She surveyed the sales floor and caught eye contact with Serena.

“Yes, you,” Amanda pointed at Serena. “I would like to try this one and this one and ooh especially this one.”

I watched her randomly push her shopping bags in the direction of clothing racks to select her choices. At one point, she used her mouth to signal an interested yes, her full lips pursed together imitating a duck. I knew Amanda was on ten, so I retreated to the back to grab her pieces from yesterday’s fitting.

“Hi Amanda, such a pleasure to see you again,” said Serena in a high-pitched tone. “Can you tell me the pieces that you would like to try again?”

“Is my girl here today, she always knows what I like. I never have to repeat myself with her, she just gets me. Are you new?” questioned Amanda as she tilted her head looking Serena up and down and finally landing on her hair.

“No Amanda, I’m not new,” Serena answered with exhaustion.

“Of course, Serena, right?” Amanda asked. “You have changed your hair, that is why I did not recognize you,” she gestured her hand in a shooing motion. “Can you fetch Melanie so I can get on, I have a facial in an hour and I cannot be late. Also, can you show her the pieces that I want to try,” smiled Amanda.

“Of course, Amanda, my pleasure.”

I could hear Serena’s footsteps walking towards the back.

“Melanie, Amanda is here, again and she on level ten today. She requested invisible clothes from invisible racks that were placed throughout the store on her way to the VIP dressing room,” Serena scorned with her hands cupping her face. “I have no idea what she wants to try on.”

“Did she think you were new?” I asked while laughing.

“Of course, she did, stupid bitch! This time it was my hair that threw her off. You know my new hairstyle that’s been the same since I started working here because this place has sucked all the creativity out of me so I’m just a shell of a person with a Jennifer Aniston lob, circa Friends. I hate my life,” Serena expressed pretending to stab herself in the chest.

“Hey, if you’re going to off yourself, be kind and do me first,” I joked and opened my arms wide to expose my chest.

Serena and I have our personal differences towards each other but it’s moments like this were we show signs of solidarity. I understand her despair and when we exchange our dark dialogue, it’s the only thing that keeps the thin string of respect we have for each other taut. Being a shop girl requires you to erase who you are, to conform to what the brand desires you to become. You’re left with a shell of an existence. The shop girls, as well as shop guys are required to arrive to work fifteen minutes early, remove all jewelry, avoid perfumes and wear all natural make-up, This was a nude or red lip, no heavy blush or eyeliner – mascara was okay but no false eyelashes or heavy eyeshadow. Your hair color could be dyed in natural colors – black, brown, blonde and anywhere in-between those shades. Nail polish had to be red or nude, which had to be adjusted to flesh tone once I was hired because an OPI ballet slipper against my caramel skin translated to white. Our wardrobe consists of elevated itchy polyester sets that includes a loafer, a boot and an uncomfortable stack heel pump. The role does come with “perks”, I get keep my navy uniform that I would never wear outside these pearl gray walls, and there’s a random weekend that the company offers us an 80% discount on extremely expensive clothes which translates to an opportunity to buy expensive clothes.

“Amanda, it feels like only yesterday since the last time I saw you,” I teased.

“Oh Mel, you are a riot,” shouted Amanda as she sat down on the velvet chaise with her legs crossed and extended.

This woman has completely lost her mind, she has never called me Mel. The newness of her insanity is making me uncomfortable. I usually know what she’s going to say and how she’s going to react after the first two minutes. This bitch has changed the game, let’s see where this goes.

“So, I think I will retry everything on and do my final edits. My trip to London has been pushed back a couple of days, so we have time, but not that much,” Amanda looks down and taps her rose gold Patek Philippe.

“Sounds good,” I agreed. “Would you like a refreshment?”

"Yummy, yes I will take a super cold Perrier with a fresh straw,” Amanda demands while finishing off her iced matcha latte.

Her pouty lips attack the paper straw like an octopus. She shakes the cup a bit too long and slurps up the silver of iced matcha left at the bottom.

“Here you go, thanks!” says Amanda and extends her hand towards me with the empty cup, and a bent wet paper straw, as condensation drips on the ivory carpet.

“Of course,” I sighed and took the cup while flashing a genuine fake smile.

What the fuck is a super cold Perrier. The water is in the fridge and after a certain point, cold is just fucking cold!

***

I could make Momma’s okra and tomatoes tonight, of course I’ll add spicy sausage, or I could just stop and grab a cheese pizza. I think I still have some wine left, hopefully two glasses worth. I shouldn’t risk it; I’ll grab a new bottle tonight. So, I can either cook for twenty minutes, add another five for chopping or send a quick text in the car for a pick-up at Sergio’s. Why do I buy pizza from a place called Sergio’s? Do Sergio own it? It’s probably own by a white woman. I should just cook the okra; I need to lose at least fifteen pounds. How are her legs so toned? Shit maybe I should do Pilates. I’m getting an extra percentage on commissions this month. I need to invest in myself. But what happens next month if my commissions aren’t the same, Pilates is very expensive and what’s the point of starting a routine if I can’t afford to finish it. Her legs are a result from long-term commitments. I’m wasting money just for one month even if it’s an introductory rate. Rich men love women that look like Amanda, at least the ones that come in here. All the wives look alike, plumped, prodded and white. I’ll find someone eventually, maybe I should reactivate my dating app, but which one. Dating is so exhausting but if I start again, I can get free dinners, free drinks for sure. I need to take a new profile picture, maybe I’ll do that once I get my braids refreshed."

I caught myself sitting down on the stool staring in the mirror when I realized that I had completely checked out while deciding my dinner and the rest of my life in my head. I was brought back to reality when I heard Amanda’s nasal accented voice.

“So, I think this one is the best, am I right,” asked Amanda as she rubbed her hands up and down her hips.

“By far the best! It’s not even a decision, it’s a fact, you must have those in your wardrobe. Our leather pants are insane and a must every season,” I replied.

“You are so right, these are insane, and I can wear them with this cashmere,” agreed Amanda. “You should also get the silk cami and blazer for another option. You don’t want to be stuck with just one look. You can pair the blazer with this maxi dress and belt it with my favorite belt of the season. If you do that, then you MUST grab these heels to wear with it because the boots will be to bottom heavy for the look. Of course, you can’t forget this bag to wear with both looks and these earrings with the leather pants and these ones with the cami/blazer look which you can also wear with the maxi dress look, but of course this pair would translate better,” I explained and extended Amanda a velvet tray with four pairs of earrings. I didn’t need to be checked in, it didn’t matter, after doing this for so long, the spiel comes out with sincerity, even though it’s all bullshit.

“You are a retail genius!” squealed Amanda. “There is no way I can come up with these looks by myself. You must stay here forever to help me, no one else can do what you do.”

Forever, that word vibrated in my soul and begin to wheel donuts in my head. It already seemed like I’ve been here forever. Time has stopped and I’m caught on a death loop of being a basic bitch.

“Amanda, you have amazing style and when everything looks absolutely stunning on you, it’s so easy to create these looks. Dare I say you’re perfect,” I spewed (insert hand movement of jerking off for full effect).

“Yes, say it!” cheered Amanda.

This bitch! “You are prefect,” I answered under my breath but with professional enthusiasm. Imitating her non-usage of contractions.

“Oops, look at the time. I must rush off for my facial. Let’s pack all of this up and have a messenger drop it off at the Bel Air property,” instructed Amanda. “You are a doll!”

***

“Five,” I mouthed. This morning, the raised sidewalk was active and already captured five victims by eleven o’clock. Today should be Amanda’s last visit and my intention is to stay on the sales floor, be on the lookout, and give her the last of the edits. I always offer to bring them to her car so the honking horns from the other cars behind her would act as my cue to flee the scene abruptly. Of course, retail karma kicked in and I had to leave the floor to take a call from my other “favorite” client, Denise Edwards.

Amanda’s infamous walk played as background noise for my phone call. I could hear her tantrum from the hidden cash wrap. The footsteps suddenly stopped, and I knew she encountered Raul. She always calls Raul, Marco, which we all think is racist. I peeked my head from around the corner to observe while listening to Denise talk about her next month-long vacation that she needs me to style her for, I think she said Mallorca, but does it really fucking matter. Amanda has inserted herself in between Raul and his client, Alicia Sanchez.

“Hi Marco, can you grab Melanie for me. I am so pressed for time,” pleaded Amanda. She looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” to Alicia while hitting her repeatedly with massive shopping bags that was oozing crumbled clothes and a heeled sandal that was headed towards the floor.

“My name is Raul,” snared Raul. “One moment, I’ll let Melanie know you’re here. You can collect your belongings and go to the fitting room,” Raul gestured poetically towards the back of the boutique. “Pardon me Alicia, I need to inform Melanie that her client has arrived,” sass Raul.

“Pardon me, can you please remind me of your name?” Raul looked over his shoulder at Amanda and stared her up and down.

I immediately hung up the phone to stop this train from going completely off the rails.

"Amanda, you're back!" I cheered. "Let me assist you with these bags. I thought we were just picking up today.”

“I did too but I think I need to switch the size in the cashmere. I would love to have it oversized and off the shoulder with the leather pants. Did you get the other belt and cashmere beanie?” Amanda asked as she brushed her highlighted hair off her face and observed me picking up all her shit that she haphazardly dropped on the floor.

“Yes, everything is packed and ready! Let me grab the next size up in the sweater. I’ll have you in and out,” I expressed with maybe too much enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Melanie you are a gem,” Amanda said a little too loudly while looking back at Raul.

I was able to get her out in seven minutes, a new record for the last of the third visit. The last third visit, she lingered around for forty-five minutes and wanted to braid my hair. I will file this moment as a win. I took a long exhale, and a small piece of joy began to rise in my chest. It immediately deflated when I remembered that I had to call Denise back! Fuck, short-lived wins are still wins, I’ll take what I can get.

***

Melanie began her bath routine - same tub, same cracks in the dull tiles and the same drip, drip, drip that lingered no matter how tightly she turned the knob. She lit the same candle with the same extended lighter for her cigarettes and followed the same path that took her pass the medicine cabinet mirror. She would stare at herself in the candlelight. The soft flickering flame would smooth out her dimpled thighs and cast a shadow on her that made it appear lifted to the same position it was in her twenties. She convinced herself that she was fine with the way she looked and skipping her workout earlier that morning was not the end of the world. She would step up to the tub and place her left foot into the warm water, then the right, stand, and lower herself into the tub. Every time her naked body hit the water, she would let out a long sigh and settle in. This time something different happened when she titled her head back against the cold porcelain, she noticed water on her face. A stream rolled down her cheeks. Her first thought was that she touched her wet hands to her face. Soon she realized that she was crying - her body began to feel light, but she sank lower in the tub - in silence. Tears rolled down her face, trickled onto her body and surrendered to the water that slowly waved back and forth against her chest. The motion put her in a temporary trance - she yearned to be her tears. They were bold to sacrifice themselves to the vastness of the water instead of remaining stagnant on her face where they could evaporate into thin air leaving no trace of an existence. As Melanie compared herself to the latter, she sank more. She knew if nothing changed, she would be that lone tear on her face waiting for nature to transmute her energy back into the collective, leaving no traces of her existence. As she closed her eyes and submerged under the water, she began to write her resignation letter in her head, tomorrow she’ll be free. Melanie rose up with intention, but what did the fucking text say?

***