Little Things
Jordan Nishkian
—I
told you what I want.
She placed her phone face-down on the cubby shelf, stomach imploding. What could she say to that? She left the cold stock room of sequins, flocked hangers, and loose threads to return to the sales floor. Her sections of evening gowns and intimates were empty of shoppers: holiday parties had all passed, and prom and wedding preparations were still months away. The only special event her areas of the department store were getting ready for was Valentine's Day. For that, they shipped in about five or six different boxes of lingerie. “‘I told you what I want?’” she muttered as she adjusted her name tag, pulled her long hair into a sloppy bun, and headed to the lingerie racks to straighten out the displays. “Why would he say it like that?” She fixed pairs of red and pink lace thongs onto slim plastic hangers. When they first came in two weeks ago, she asked him if she should buy a pair. “Taline, what's the point of paying $30 for three pieces of string?” he asked. He had a point. Instead, she bought a teal nightgown to match the color of his 1994 Mustang, which he seemed to appreciate. That was the night he really wanted to talk about becoming a family. She shook her head as the flimsy hanger she was handling broke in her palm. They were already a family, but in the last few days, it had become a perpetual, exhausting discussion. Taline finished up in the lingerie department and walked to a checkout station at the front of the evening floor. Dozens of racks glittered with gowns, but her focus was drawn to the last open browser tab in her cell phone—it was the requirements list for the master’s program she’d been putting off. She checked the time. Another fourteen minutes before she had to take her prescription. After refilling the staples in the stapler, reorganizing the drawers, and testing all the pens, she reviewed her sales totals: $470. It was a Monday. She was never busy on Mondays. A mother and daughter chattering in Armenian approached her floor, browsing the racks, and draping dresses over an empty stroller. A small, fair-skinned, dark-haired baby toddled behind his grandmother. Don't cry, she thought. “Hello,” Taline’s customer service voice spoke for her. “Please let me know if you need anything.” The grandmother’s eyes narrowed, wrinkled skin folding over itself as she studied her face and name tag. “Inch bes es?” the middle-aged woman tested. “Shad lav,” Taline answered. “And how are you?” She achieved a look of approval. Her own tatik would be proud. “Well, thank you,” the woman responded, turning her attention to the child pulling at her pant leg. “Can I help you find anything today?” “We're just looking for now, but,” the daughter said, eying their stroller full of merchandise, “I'm sure we'll need a dressing room in a few minutes.” Taline nodded. “Just let me know.” She watched the ladies roll on with their dresses and their fluttering, red-stickered price tags. The register screen read 12:23 p.m. Seven minutes. She could have technically taken it then, but she liked to be exact. Something brushed her leg, and her pulse quickened. The toddler stood next to her, his chocolate-colored eyes inspecting the lace trim on her skirt. She froze and stared at the top of his curly head. Don't cry, please don't cry. A grubby finger reached for the hem, and she winced as he grabbed at the fabric while struggling to keep his balance. She looked across the store and waved to his owners, but they were too engrossed with percentages to notice her. He began to wobble. Oh god, don't do that. She extended a wary finger at him and he grasped on to her. His pudgy hand wrapped around her as he steadied himself. His fingers were surprisingly warm and not as sticky as she had imagined. Taline relaxed a bit; she didn’t mind being needed. Kithe/Nishkian
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