Chapter 6 - On My Feet on the Cold Marble
The marble hadn't warmed at all. If anything it had gotten colder under me, seeping up through my dress and into the backs of my legs until my feet felt half-asleep and sore at the same time.
The security man stopped a careful distance away. He didn't reach for me right away. He bent his knees a little so he wasn't towering over me, his suit pulling tight across his shoulders, and he held out his right hand, palm up.
"Ma'am," he said quietly.
I looked at his hand. Then at the dirt beside me. The dark pile had spread a little where my heel had brushed it. Tiny grains stuck to my ankle.
I didn't take his hand yet. My breathing was shallow. I could hear the low hum of the recessed spots above us and a phone camera clicking somewhere to my left.
"I can help you up," he said. "Only if you want."
Behind him, the manager shifted her weight. The clipboard was still in her left hand, held close to her stomach now instead of out like a shield.
I put my left hand in his. His hand was warm and rough. I pressed my other palm flat against the cold floor and started to push.
The first movement sent a sting through my soles. Sitting that long on hard stone had made my feet throb. I winced before I could stop it and paused halfway, crouched, my dress pulling against my knees.
"Take your time," he said. He didn't pull. He just kept his hand steady under mine.
I breathed out through my nose and stood the rest of the way.
My legs shook. I locked my knees to stop it and felt blood rush back into my feet in pins. The cream dress fell back down around my legs, wrinkled and damp at the hem where it had touched the floor. Dirt smudged along one side. I was suddenly aware of how short it felt standing up, how bare my shoulders and feet looked under all that bright warm light.
Someone in the crowd made a small sound. Not a laugh. More like an intake of air. I kept my eyes down for a second, letting my hair fall forward, then I lifted my chin.
Now they could see all of me. No counter to hide behind. Just me in the middle of the white floor with the dirt at my feet.
I glanced at the manager. For half a second her face slipped. Her mouth softened at the corners and her eyes flicked down to my feet, to the red marks the marble had left on my soles. It looked like guilt, quick and real.
Then she blinked and it was gone. Her jaw set again. She lifted the clipboard higher against her chest with both hands.
"Can I have some water?" I asked. My voice came out hoarse from sitting quiet so long. "And a chair? My feet—"
"You can't—" the manager started. She stopped herself, eyes darting to the women with the handbags. "We don't have... This is a sales floor, not a waiting area."
The security man turned his head toward her, but before he could speak, a younger voice cut in from near the glass counter.
"I can get it," a sales associate said. A girl in her early twenties, black dress, no clipboard. She'd been standing behind the counter the whole time. Her hands were twisting together. "There's bottled water in the back. And the fitting room stool."
The manager's head snapped toward her. "Stay at your station."
The girl hesitated. Her cheeks went pink. She looked at me, then at the crowd, then back at the manager.
"Please," I said to her directly. "Water would help."
That seemed to decide it. She stepped out from behind the counter. "I'll be thirty seconds," she said, and walked fast toward the back hallway, her flats silent on the marble.
The manager exhaled sharply through her nose. She didn't stop the girl. She couldn't, not with everyone watching. She adjusted her grip on the clipboard until her knuckles went white.
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I stayed where I was, upright in the center of the store. The dirt was still there at my feet, dark against the white. My legs ached, but I didn't sit back down. The security man stepped back half a step to give me space, close enough that I could reach him if I swayed.
The crowd had gone quieter. One of the women in black lowered her phone a little.
