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Ironically, her work smock was offensively yellow, decked in pins, buttons, sunflowers, tiny replicas of books, smiley faces and customer service slogans. Welcome! How can I help?—her outfit proclaimed, but her face said: “Do not speak to me.” The only part of her work attire that seemed of her own volition was a black tooth pin she’d stuck near her collar, some logo proclaiming: “Goth Tooth.” She was using it to cover her name badge.
He took off his sunglasses and strode to the counter, rapidly becoming uncomfortably aware of how his shoes sounded on the cheap wooden floor, how his suit seemed elitist against the backdrop of used books and squashy armchairs. Even his sharp, spiced cologne that screamed of power and suave confidence clashed with the papery dust smell of the store.
He might well have been a Martian, a man of the red sands landing on this lush green world.
Barret tried to shake the flak of self-doubt that was besieging him. Of course his suit was elitist: he was the elite! This store was nothing, nothing!
It was a struggle to clear his throat. Even then, his powerful voice came out stammering and ashamed. “Eh-excuse me,” he said.
Her heavily lidded eyes dragged up to his, passing over his suit, his watch, his haircut with such true disinterest that he was taken aback.
“Yes?” she replied. Her tone was neither rude nor welcoming; it was a flat beam of emotionless steel driven into him.
He leaned on the counter, suddenly desperate to get her to smile, blush, ask about the suit, his cologne, anything. What was this? Should he call the driver and have him bring the car closer, so she could see it? Would that impress her? “I’m Woodrow Barret.”
Her eyes, a dim shade of hazel, widened, but not in shock or recognition. No, it was simple, sarcastic indifference. “Okay?”
“Normally that gets a reaction from people.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Hmm.” He was at a loss; he rarely had to do this much work to turn someone into a quivering people-pleaser. “I own WunderSon Industries.”
She scratched her head. “Do you need books on avoiding taxes or—"
He grinned. “I have people for that. I’m actually here to meet the owner.” But I’d rather stay and talk to you.
She appraised him with her judgmental eyes. Barret found himself standing rigid, his heart beating very fast, as this waifish, knobby-elbowed little woman who looked like she had a pack of cigarettes for each meal shredded him with her cold gaze. Such power! Such force of personality!
“Mm,” she replied. “I’ll let Olivia know.”
“Thank you, Miss…?” He extended his hand, waiting to hear her name.
“Gertrude,” she said, cautiously shaking it. She withdrew her hand sharply, as though he might burn her. She kept a wary eye on him as she left the counter and disappeared into the employees-only section.
“Gertrude,” he said to the empty room
What a fine name.
