The only thing I did when I entered the boutique was look around. I was wearing sandals and a cotton shirt. The man who would smack my hand and try to push me out was not something I anticipated, nor did I anticipate silk robes or snarky remarks.
Nevertheless, I was completely unprepared for the phone call that would cause his face to become white. It was one of those days in Iowa when the sun did more than just emanate light; it pressed down on you like a warm blanket that had just been removed from the dryer. The warmth was as thick as molasses, and it clung to the backs of my legs and the back of my neck.
Even the pavement appeared to be groaning beneath the weight of the pressure. I put on my favorite cotton blouse, which was light and loose, and a pair of breezy jeans that caught the slight wind blowing through the room. The sandals that I had been wearing for years were still on my feet.
I had been carried by them through the downtown area, across the farmer’s market, and once, in an unwise manner, across a path that was rocky. Even though the bottoms were worn out and the straps were slightly frayed, I was the owner of these shoes. I had no intention of purchasing anything at all.
Simply put, I yearned for air conditioning and anything pleasant to look at. My feet had the ability to lead me along Main Street as if they were more familiar with the path than I was. At that moment, I became aware of the sign that read “Blossom & Co.” The lettering was golden and shining, the kind of typography that causes you to stand a little higher simply by coming into contact with it.
Something that would be found in Chicago but not at this location. When I got to the door, I halted. In most cases, I would not venture to a location like that.
But there was something about it that compelled me to pull the handle and step inside. It was the cool air that I imagined being within, and the soothing silence of luxurious things. Once inside, the air had the sensation of entering a different realm.
It’s cool. A crisp. It smelt like freshly squeezed lemon juice and high-quality wood.
Classy and refined. I took a deep breath and let the sense of serenity to permeate my entire body. The shop was just gorgeous.
As if they were wisps of mist waiting for a burst of wind, gowns floated effortlessly on silver hangers. There was a precise arrangement of handbags, as if they were evaluating each other. And the shoes, oh, the shoes, were arranged in such a way that it appeared as though they had been drilled to stand in a formation.
It was a garment that I reached out to touch. The color is a deep blue, as rich as the sky at twilight. The sensation between my fingers was similar to that of liquid silk; I couldn’t tell if it was velvet or chiffon, but it made me grin.
And then the voice was heard. “What’s up! What’s up?
Tell me, what are you doing? When I felt it, it was as sharp as a splinter in my ear. I whirled around, startled.
A gentleman with excellent hair and a gray vest that was tailored to his body approached me. Mason was written on his tag. Please excuse me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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