Loehmann’s fitting room was unusually crowded. No matter where I stood in this large mirrored space, once a discount designer paradise, reflections of female flesh surrounded me.
My father knew his clients’ bodies intimately. He knew whose shoulders sloped, who had one leg longer than the other, and whose neck was disproportionately large.
When I shift in my seat, the light dims and goes out. The backseat curves around me like a can; he moves his right leg and the cuff of his pants brushes my ankle.
I have not quit. I have made no such bold, unequivocal commitment. That I have not smoked in twenty-five years does not mean that I will never smoke another one.