The woman goes back to her task, stepping up onto the bottom shelf to boost herself, but she only succeeds in knocking the box backwards and further out of reach.
“Do you need some help?” Claire says tentatively.
The woman hops down from the shelf, flicking her shiny hair out of her face with a frustrated sigh and turning to Claire. “Help?”
Claire points up to the tipped-over box. It’s well within her own reach. “I could get that for you?”
The woman’s expression clears. She looks surprised, but she moves aside, nodding. “Oh. That’d be swell, actually. Thank you.”
Claire abandons her cart, stepping closer to the woman. The top of her head barely comes past Claire’s chin. She would usually expect to smell someone’s perfume, standing this close, but the woman doesn’t seem to be wearing anything too strong—just a light herbal scent. Shampoo, maybe?
Claire plucks the box easily from its place, handing it to the woman with a tentative smile. “Here.”
“This is what I get for not wearing heels today, right?” the woman says, dropping the box into the basket sitting on the floor near her feet. It lands haphazardly next to some milk and a loaf of bread. Her voice is low and a little throaty, but her accent sounds local, not European. “I wish I had your height.”
“No, you don’t. Trust me,” Claire says, with a self-conscious chuckle. “Try being the only girl in the back row of every school photo. There’s no blending in when you’re taller than most of the boys.”
“Why would you want to blend in?”
“I…” Claire says. Her words trail off as she actually absorbs the question. She can’t say she’s ever been asked such a thing before, let alone in the middle of the cereal aisle, and she’s not sure how to respond. It feels as if it should be obvious.
Blending in is just what one does, isn’t it? Claire used to stick out like a sore thumb as a child. Her parents wanted a simple, sweet little daughter, and instead got a gangly daydreamer of a child who had to be pushed into the appropriate ladylike behavior. Even now, over ten years into marriage and long past her tomboy days, Claire still stumbles through the everyday steps that every other housewife in the country seems to dance through. She never says the right things, never wears the right clothes. She never quite fits.
The woman is still looking at her like she expects an answer.
“Every painting needs a background?” Claire blurts.
The woman’s expression changes. Claire wishes she could read it, but she truly has no idea what might be going through that lovely head. The woman’s dark eyes brush over Claire from head to toe, and all at once she wishes she had kept her mouth shut. And maybe worn a nicer dress. Next to this woman, Claire might as well be a lanky teen dressed in a paper bag. She almost wants to move behind her cart again just to have some semblance of cover.
Before she can follow that impulse, the woman smiles.
Claire was right. It’s absolutely stunning. It changes her whole face from something uncannily beautiful, like some marble statue behind glass at a museum, to something that feelsreal. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. One of her canine teeth is very pointed, almost sharp, while the other is slightly shorter, like it’s been sanded down by tooth grinding. It lends a slight crookedness to her grin that only makes her more interesting.
It’s a marvelous smile. Claire is tempted to try to commit it to paper. It’s more than a passing thought, this time—it’s an urge.She can feel the weight of the pencil in her hand, and the wrist movements it would take to draw the sharp line of her jaw. It’s like stretching a long-neglected muscle.
Claire has no idea what she did to earn that smile, but it’s sunshine breaking through clouds.
“My advice?” the woman says, leaning close. Her smile is conspiratorial now. “Don’t bother with the background. Some people belong at the front.”
Claire blinks silently while the woman gathers her basket, hanging it over her arm.
“Thank you for your help,” the woman says. She slips past Claire, headed towards the checkout, while Claire is still rooted to the spot.
“You’re very welcome,” she says faintly to an empty aisle.
Chapter 2
The rest of the shopping takes longer than usual. Claire forgets things she normally wouldn’t, having to double back once or even twice to each aisle as ‘Don’t bother with the background’echoes in her mind. She fumbles her groceries into paper bags at the checkout, and, as the cashier takes her cash, all Claire can think is ‘Some people belong at the front’. By the time she makes it all the way home, it’s almost noon.
She’s lost in thought and midway through unloading the groceries when the kitchen phone rings.
“Davis residence,” Claire says distractedly, tucking the receiver against her ear as she stacks cans into the cupboard.
“Hi, honey,” Pete says across the crackling phone line.
Claire’s hand stops mid-air, a can of peas clutched in her fingers. Her husband calling from the office is quite out of the ordinary. “Pete? Is everything all right?”
“Just wanted to warn you I’m going to be home a little late tonight. We’ve got a big sale coming up, and they want a presentation at six. Expect me at seven-thirty.”
