Rough Sketch of a Greeter

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?”