Angela stands at the entrance to the self-checkout, hands at
her sides, fingers splayed, as if the paint on her acrylic nails is freshly
applied and drying.
Aside from a
pair of brilliant red lips, she is accessorized entirely in shades of blue and
yellow, the colors that compose her pants and vest—the uniform in which she
works. The acrylics are yellow, bright, as are the laces of her walking shoes. Her
hair shares not only the shade, but also the same ambiguous shape and stale, sodden
qualities of carnival popcorn. Her shoes are blue. Her eyes, hidden in the color,
three or four sparkling variations.
She wears golden rings on every cobbled finger, bracelets on her wrists, a brooch, her name tag. The word 'dish' comes to mind, ballroom floors, though the whole of her is like a piece of silken furniture left at a window for years, silted and brittle and faded by
the sun.
She smiles.
Her teeth are long and white, flecked with the red of her lips.
“Hello,” she
says, batting lashes, long and stiff as plastic. “How are you on this beautiful,
beautiful day?”
