“I’m not sure yet.” I peer over his shoulder at the coat. I paid twenty dollars more than I wanted to for it, but I’m obsessed with the color. “The material is timeless, but the shoulder pads need to go, so it’ll need to be completely reworked. It’s great though, right?”

“Can I rip the seams?” he asks, seam ripper already in hand. I tell him to go for it, my focus back on the fitting room and my potential sale.

“Is there anything you don’t like about the dress?” I call out, “Because I can fix it. I can fix anything.”

There’s another moment of silence before the fitting room curtain swooshes open and Mrs Bianchi appears dressed in the clothes she arrived in, the dress draped over her arm. My heart sinks. She hated it. She must have. She didn’t even keep it on long enough to show it to me, or take a twirl in front of the large three-way mirror arranged in the corner.

“What did you think?” I ask the question, a kernel of hope still in my heart even though her face is giving away nothing. I know that dress is perfect, but maybe she doesn’t? Maybe she has no appreciation for my style of deconstructed vintage, or maybe it simply isn’t for her.

She eyes me speculatively, her gaze calculating as she surveys my store. It’s a little bit bare, a look I prefer to call ‘tastefully minimalist’ as opposed to ‘no-money-for-inventory chic.’

We haven’t discussed price, I realize. She’s going to lowball me. Ugh. Fine, whatever. As long as I can recoup my costs, maybe I’ll get a repeat customer out of this. I bought it cheap at an estate sale in Schenectady, what with the rip and the dirty hem.

“You’re very talented, Audrey,” she begins and I’m caught off guard. This is a terrible way to start a negotiation.

“Thank you?” I respond, but even I can hear the question hanging at the end of my response, so I repeat myself with a bit more confidence. I’m hoping my tone says ‘expensive’ and ‘worth it.’ “Thank you.” I stand a little taller for good measure.

“How is it that I’ve never heard of you?”

“Well, my location is less than… ideal. And I’m just starting out, building inventory and a client base.”

“In Albany?” She slides half a glance in my direction, her raised brows indicating her thoughts on the ridiculousness of it. “Why aren’t you in the city?”

She means New York City, of course.

“Cost of living,” I reply. It’s a generic response that everyone understands. New York is too expensive for most. Besides, it’s true. True enough, anyway. Partly true.

“I attend a lot of high-profile events in New York,” she says. “Charity events, fundraisers, that kind of thing.”

I misjudged her negotiation skills. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She definitely wants a discount. I eye her shoes and her handbag. Expensive. Classic. But hey, wealthy people love to wheel and deal.

“And you’d like to wear my dress to one of them?”

“I think I might,” she replies, but she doesn’t make any moves to hand me the dress so I can slip it inside of a garment bag and take her money. Instead, she continues to stroll about my store, her gaze taking in every detail, including me.

I will not fidget.

My dark blonde hair is in a loose braid, the end swept over one shoulder. It’s a convenient way to tame it when I’m working. Besides, I love the aesthetic of a casual braid.

My ex hated it. He called the look bohemian. It wasn’t a compliment. “Can you straighten your hair for the dinner tonight, Audrey?” Uh, no, actually. No, I cannot.

I’m wearing a 1960’s-inspired dress I designed with salvaged vintage material. A few well-sewn darts, trim added to the neckline, a sexy hemline and you’d never know it originated as a tablecloth. Ugh, maybe I am a hippie.

I should have gone with a business Barbie look today in anticipation of making this sale, but it is what it is.

Mrs Bianchi stops before me, taking me in from my head to my toes, but her gaze is more contemplative than judgmental. Then she nods to herself as if she’s come to a conclusion, which I’m hoping is the same as mine and involves her leaving with this dress and ordering another.

It’s not.

“I like you, Audrey.”

Super. I like me too.

Obviously I don’t say that out loud.

“You know, my son finds dating difficult as well,” she finally says, one eyebrow raised in suggestion.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no and no.

I turn and shoot a murderous glance at Miller, not even bothering to hide it from Mrs Bianchi. This is his fault. Goading me about my needing a date in front of customers. Well, customer. We just have the one. But still, the point is that she overheard our conversation and now she’s eyeing me up for a setup with her son.

And listen, if your mom needs to set you up? Enough said on that, am I right?

Miller snorts and mumbles, “Best job ever,” to himself, but he keeps his head buried in the seam he’s deconstructing as if that somehow makes him invisible. I’ll deal with him later.

Turning back to Mrs Bianchi, I place a hand on my hip in what I hope is a respectfully authoritarian pose. I’m in control here. “Mrs Bianchi, are you trying to work out some kind of trade for the dress and”—I pause here, hoping she’ll see the lunacy of her suggestion without me having to say it—“a date with your son?”

“Of course not!” She waves a hand and does an excellent job of looking aghast at the suggestion. “I’m going to pay you for the dress, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I repeat back, but my voice is much less confident than hers. Did I totally read into that date suggestion? I must have.

“The date would be more of a favor,” she continues with the ease of a woman used to getting her own way. It should be off-putting but honestly… she’s oddly charming.

Upstairs there’s a hiss of a pipe followed by a loud expletive from the plumber.

Then there’s a pop, which is presumably a fuse blowing because the lights go out. But it’s fine, it’s the middle of the day so we’re not plunged dramatically into the dark. Plenty of natural light still filters in through the windows.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

A tad awkward, absolutely.

I square my shoulders, prepared to make a deal that doesn’t involve me going on a bad date with some guy who can’t get laid in a scheme set up by his mother.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy Gary. Slinking his orange overweight body through the basement doorway with… oh, God. So much for that humane mouse trap I spent thirteen dollars on. Rest in peace, little fella. Except… is it still moving?

Can I get a break? Just one?

You know what? A bad date never hurt anyone. It builds character. Someday it’ll make a funny story.

I need Mrs Bianchi out of my store five minutes ago. I slide my arm behind her back and guide her quickly towards the front door before my best relationship from the internet betrays me and drops a live mouse in front of my potential big sale.

“Does your son live in your basement, Mrs Bianchi?”

She laughs. “Of course not. He has his own place. And a job. A really good job.”