I scurry farther into the store, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he doesn’t come in. I don’t suppose he will: this is a ladies’ clothing store. Upon closer inspection, I see it’s an upscale clothing store. “AmandaE â€“ The Place for You” a poster on the wall proclaims. I’d heard of AmandaE before, seen their full-page ads in glamour magazines. I pick up a price tag from a ruffled chiffon blouse, then another on a leather blazer, then another on a pair of twill trousers. Just as I suspected: there is nothing I can afford in here. I look around for the “Women’s” sign for the plus size clothing section. There is none. “AmandaE â€“ Not for Me,” I quote under my breath. Not a knit or jersey garment in sight, either. “Definitely Tiresa’s kind of store.”
I roam through the racks of stylish clothing, not so much looking at them as much as keeping an eye on the door for Wesley to pass by so I can go back outside. My heart sinks at the next glimpse. Darn itâ€”the jerk now stands in front of the store, still talking and laughing and gesturing. I’m trapped.
“May I help you?” a female voice breaks into my musings. I turn to find a pale, pretty, stick thin store clerk, looking like she just stepped off the catwalk and into a pile of poo. She can barely keep her lip from curling.
I glance around for an excuse to be in a store which is obviously not for women of my size and see a sign for shoes. “Yes, I’m looking for a pair of sandals. Do you carry any?”
The clerk actually huffs with disgust. “A few.” She spins on her heel and walks away. With a glance at Wesley’s back, I follow. The shoe department is so small that I can stand in one spot and see all the selection.
“What size?” the clerk asks non-too-nicely.
“Uh, eleven,” I reply, sitting down.
She makes another huffing noise. “We don’t carry many shoes in that size.”
Fear of meeting Wesley is replaced by offense at the clerk’s attitude. “Then why don’t you check for some?” I suggest through gritted teeth.
Another lip curl and she disappears through a doorway. From this angle, I can’t see most of the store, hedged in by stands of belts, purses and other accessories. Even these carry exorbitant price tags. It is truly disgusting how greedy retailers can be. Seriously, $150 for a blingy belt? Made in China, no doubt, by an underpaid employee.
The snooty store clerk returns and dumps three boxes of shoes at my feet. “This is all the sandals we have in size eleven and they don’t stretch much.” She crosses her arms as if to dare me to try them on.
“Thank you,” I reply haughtily. None of the shoes match my dress, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I remove my shoe and bend over to slip on the first sandal. Well, try to slip it on. It doesn’t go past my arch.