The Boutique on Maple
The boutique on Maple displayed a gown in its front window that I had already imagined on Hazel.
Ivory. Soft. Romantic.
She stood in front of the glass for a long moment.
Then, in a voice I had not heard in nearly a year, she asked:
“Could I try the one in the window?”
The saleswoman looked her up and down slowly.
The corners of her mouth tightened.
“That’s not going to work for you, honey. You’re too big.”
No apology. No softening. Just that.
Hazel did not cry. She did not argue. She simply turned around, walked outside, and climbed into the passenger seat of my car.
My hands shook as I followed her.
“Hazel, I am so sorry. I am going to go back in there and—”
“Please drive.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Please. Just drive.”
The entire ride home, she stared straight ahead. I kept glancing over, waiting for tears. Waiting for anger. Waiting for anything.
Nothing came.
That frightened me more than sobbing ever could.
When we got home, she went upstairs and shut her bedroom door.
The lock clicked.
