Those moments seemed enough, most of the time, to offset the two pairs of gloves and the stink of unwashed donations.And anyway, it was a job.You took the good times with the bad.
I was working my way through the second bag when the door chimed and the bad walked in.
It was meant to look like a casual outfit, I figured; Flynn’s idea of hometown chic.Maybe he’d been gone too long, or maybe the echoes of the price tag on his peacoat were just too loud to ignore.The hoodie layered underneath too crisply perfect: not stretched out at the front, or bearing some half-faded logo across the chest to betray its age.Even his sweatpants screamed money, the gray fabric hanging in a way that those on the $9.99 rail simply couldn’t match.
A rich person’s idea of dressing-down.Laughable, really, among aisles where a fifty-fifty cotton and polyester mix was considered luxurious.
He glanced around as he walked toward the counter.“Quiet, isn’t it?”
I shrugged.“It’s the holidays.”
Flynn nodded, slowly.Looked around again.“You working on your own today?”
“It’s the holidays,” I repeated.
He made a face, just briefly.I wasn’t sure if it was from the reminder of the time of year, or my coldness.
“I might just look around,” he suggested.
It was tempting to roll my eyes, but I didn’t.“That’s how it works, yeah,” I said, blandly.
A sensible man - one still with the churning belly of someone who’d spent the morning terrified his biggest secret would get spread around - would’ve been polite, the voice at the back of my head told me.Friendly, even; all the better to casually bring up the revelations of the night before, and drop a few “I’d hate for people to find out before I’m ready” hints.
There was just something about him which rubbed me the wrong way, though.And so I quietly seethed behind the counter instead.
“Is there something you’re actually looking for?”I called out, finally, when he’d slowly worked his way down one aisle and was turning into the next.
Flynn looked up.“I thought it’d be kinda like a vintage store, y’know?”
I snorted.“You think the people here are donating that sort of stuff?”
He had the good grace to at least look slightly sheepish.
It wasn’t entirely a bad assumption, not really.Occasionally, very occasionally, we’d get something actually special: a designer label that had inexplicably ended up in our backwater, or an antique worth something.According to the people at head office, I was better than most at spotting them.
“Most shoppers are more motivated by price and longevity, than they are fashion,” I said, instead of explaining that.“We can’t all afford thousand-dollar coats.”
Apparently he was going to ignore my sarcasm.
Instead, he picked up a shirt, holding it to his chest.Red and black plaid; what my mom would call “one for good ole boys.”Flynn looked up at me, expectantly.
“What do you think?”
I shrugged.“It’s probably warm.”
He nodded slowly, as if I’d said something exceptionally wise.Kept sifting through the rail, like one discovery automatically made others more likely.
It wasn’t like I forgot he was there.You learned a sort of second-sense, working retail, always aware of someone browsing.But the silence was lulling, and I buried myself in sifting through the trash bags and making one small pile of what was worth keeping.
So engrossed, I flinched when Flynn dumped his armful of stuff on the countertop.
I stood, pulling off the gloves as I surveyed his haul.The red and black shirt he’d found first was there, but a black polo, too, plus a tweedy sort of jacket that I had strong suspicions had come the shop’s way after its original wearer headed to the cemetery.Then again, it wasn’t a surprise to our clientele that they often left sporting dead people’s clothes.
“You need to try any of it on?”
Flynn frowned.“Is that okay?”
It was another chance to show great restraint, given rolling my eyes would’ve been perfectly understandable.I gestured at the little cubicle.“Five items at a time, is the rule.”
