She sat the basket of food inside the doorway. He was there, damn him., right behind her. ‘Just set the tools here,’ she made a waving jester toward the wicker rocking chairs that lined the porch. ‘I’ll take the suit case.’ She walked through the dark cottage, rolling up a window shade on the way to her bedroom. It was still dark and shutters blocked the light. She sat the suitcase on the bed and went back to retrieve the basket. He was still there on the porch. ‘Thanks for the help,’ she said, ready to close the door. ‘I’ll take the shutters off for you,’ he said nervously. It was almost a question. ‘That’s not necessary, I’ll do it later. That’s why I brought the tools,’ she added. ‘It’s better if I do it,’ he argued. ‘I know where everything goes.’ Infuriated, she raised her voice, ‘You don’t know where things go, you’ve never been under this house, Jack would never have permitted it!’ Afraid that she would begin to cry, she quieted. She tried to think how long it had been since. “Slow day.” “That it is,” the guy agreed. For a second, he looked like he was about to add something but didn’t. Instead, he proceeded to the fitting rooms. Our fitting rooms are arranged in a T shape. The whole area is sectioned off by a partially open curtain, but you can still see the middle corridor. The rooms in the back are not visible from the outside at all. He went all the way to the back, then turned right. It didn’t seem to matter at the time - the back rooms are more private, obviously, so they get filled up first. I kind of hoped he’d pick one of the rooms in the main corridor, and maybe, just maybe, he’d open the door before getting fully clothed, or something, and I’d sneak a peek. But whatever. There are plenty of guys to gawk at on the Internet. I decided to force myself to sort through the pile of clothes I had. Jeans go to one pile, shirts in another one… boring. Better than pushing carts around though. “Hello,” a bright voice interrupted me. “Hi,” I said unsurely..
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