One

Claire had a rule about Tuesdays: Harold Burns was not going to get to her.

She'd made the rule the same way she made most of her rules, after a week of letting the opposite happen. She held to it with the particular stubbornness of a twenty-four-year-old who had recently discovered that being pretty was a kind of armor. She walked into the little shop at the far end of the mall at four minutes past two, her red hair in a low ponytail, and didn't look at the checkout counter on her way past.

She could feel him looking anyway. That was the thing about Harold. He rarely said anything about it. He just looked, with the patient, hopeful intensity of a man who had spent most of his life looking at things he wasn't allowed to touch.

"You're late," he said, irritated, as if irritation were something he'd decided on in advance.

Claire went to the back room, dropped her purse into the old filing cabinet the employees used as lockers, and took a breath. In the mirror over the sink she checked herself: pale skin, freckles across her nose and cheeks, green eyes tired from a morning class. Her hair was the loudest thing about her. Bright copper-red, it drew comments from strangers and made her stand out in every room. In high school she'd hated it. By twenty-four she'd learned to work with it.

When she returned, Harold still had his grumpy face on.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said, gathering his papers. "I need you here by two on Tuesdays. The next time you're late, I'm going to have to fire you."

Here we go again, she thought.

He said it every week. She gave the same response every week. She put on her best puppy-dog face.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Burns. Class ran over again, but I got here as soon as I could."

He turned and stopped.

Harold was forty-five, with thinning brown-and-grey hair he seemed to have given up on a decade earlier. He owned a clothing store and had no sense of style: wrong colors with wrong patterns, everything fitting his awkward body a little badly. Claire had filed him under a category she'd invented and never named aloud: men who had never been popular and still couldn't quite believe it.

She watched his frown give way.

"I know it must be tough," he said, "going to school and working at the same time."

Then his eyes went down the front of her V-neck and stopped at the pale tops of her breasts.

Claire waited. There was a small satisfaction in knowing that the man who signed her paychecks could be made to forget what he was saying.

"Thank you so much for understanding," she said, and moved off to straighten the clothes.

Harold gathered his papers again.

"I'll be in the office if you need me."

Claire was used to being looked at. She'd stopped minding around nineteen, when she'd realized she could sometimes use it. At five-three and a hundred and five pounds, athletic and compact, with a full C-cup on a small frame, she had learned what a certain angle of shoulder or a slow turn could do.

Her friends called her a tease. She accepted the label, mostly because she thought it was true. She flirted to get what she wanted, then left before anyone could expect anything of her.

The freckles were part of it too, scattered across her chest and shoulders. Men followed them with their eyes.

She had put Harold in the same category as other men she believed she understood: harmless pushovers. His wife came by sometimes, spoke to him as though he were a child, and watched him do as he was told.

It made everything seem easy, and Claire liked things easy.

Two

Harold went into his small office, which doubled as the break room, and closed the door.

He sorted his deposit slips, lined up his pens, and did the little things that made him feel in control. Then he pulled up the security feed.

Claire was moving between the tables, straightening clothes. Even through the grainy camera he could make out her shape. When she leaned over a display, he watched her breasts shift against her shirt.

He was forty-five and married. He had been looking at women in this shop for fifteen years, but he had never quite explained to himself what Claire did to him.

He pulled himself out of his pants and started stroking, his eyes on the monitor. A few minutes later he came into a handful of napkins. He cursed quietly, cleaned himself up, and sat back.

Other women worked for him, but Claire was the one he waited to see. And she flirted with him. Or he thought she did. She stood close, looked up through her lashes, used his name. He was never sure it meant anything, but he wanted to believe it meant more than nothing.

Three

The first glimpse happened on an ordinary Wednesday.

Harold had asked Claire to straighten the low display table where they stacked the folded sweaters. She knelt in front of it, her skirt riding up her thighs.

From behind the counter, he could see between her knees: the insides of her thighs and the dark auburn cotton of her panties, pulled taut. She concentrated on the sweaters while he stared.

When she stood, he looked down at his papers.

A few days later she dropped the price gun. She bent at the waist to retrieve it, and her blouse hung away from her body. Harold, behind the counter, could see down the front.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

The blouse was a thin sample piece, sheer enough that a bra showed through. Inside the open neckline, her breasts hung forward, pale and full.

Her areolas were wide and pale pink, raised from the curves of her breasts. Puffy, he thought. The cold had drawn her nipples up, and the soft tissue around them was visibly raised too.

She straightened with the price gun, said something cheerful, and went back to work. Harold looked at his papers again, unable to concentrate on them.

Four

A week later Claire was behind the counter, texting a friend about a weekend out of town.

"I'm scheduled this weekend, but let me see if I can get it off," she typed.

Harold came in, went straight to the office, and shut the door.

Claire put away her phone and walked the floor, looking busy. Half an hour passed.

"What is he doing?" she asked the empty store.

She went back to speak to him. The door was locked.

"Hang on a minute!"

She heard him get up and move things around. By the time he opened the door, she had almost forgotten how she meant to ask.

"Yes?" he said.

"Oh. Hey. How's it going?"

"What is it, Claire? I'm busy."

"I know I'm scheduled this weekend, but I was hoping I could work extra during the week and get it off."

"Come on, Claire. You know I have trouble filling the weekends."

She noticed the bulge in his trousers and the way he stood, as though hoping she wouldn't look. She looked back at his face.

"Please?"

"Let me think about it."

He closed the door. A few minutes later he left without saying anything, and Claire decided she wasn't getting the weekend off.

After an hour, curiosity took her into the office. She checked the browser history, found nothing that explained his behavior, and glanced at the security feed. No customers. She opened Facebook, then stopped.

She knew where the recordings were saved; she'd once pulled footage of a shoplifter for mall security. The files were divided by hour and deleted automatically after a week. She opened several, then selected the most recent.

It showed her bent over a table. The camera angle gave a clear view down her shirt.

Her mouth fell open.

I should tell his wife, she thought.

She moved the pointer toward the corner of the window and stopped. Closing it felt like deciding she had seen nothing. Leaving it open meant having to explain why she had been looking.

Footsteps passed outside the office.

She minimized the player before she knew who they belonged to, then sat back, irritated with herself.

She wasn't the one who ought to be nervous.

A customer interrupted her, but the image stayed with her. All afternoon she rehearsed a confrontation, then rehearsed Harold's answers. She had seen what the camera could see, not what he had been doing with it. That distinction gave her something to retreat behind.

By evening she had begun making excuses for him. He probably wasn't happy at home. Looking wasn't the same as touching. She could deal with looking.

At closing she found him in the office, this time with the door open.

"I'm all done."

"Goodnight," he said without looking up.

"Did you have a chance to think about the weekend?"

He sighed.

"I don't have anyone else to call in. The other three girls are already working, and I'm not paying them overtime so you can go off and party."

Claire stepped behind his chair and, on impulse, put her hands on his shoulders.

Harold froze. Apart from a handshake, it was the first time she had touched him.

She massaged his neck for a moment, then took her hands away, embarrassed by her own attempt.

"That's it?" he said. "You want the whole weekend off, and all I get is a two-second massage?"

"Well, what do you want?"

He turned in his chair.

"For me to work the whole weekend, it had better be more than that."

Her mind went straight to sex. He could forget it.

"I guess you don't want it off that badly," he said, turning back to his papers.

She should have left it there. Instead she asked, "What would be worth it?"

"How about modeling some of our clothing for me?"

"You want me to try on clothes?"

"Yup."

"And that's all?"

"A few outfits, to help me make some buying decisions." He looked at her. "Did you have something else in mind?"

The store carried mainstream clothes, not lingerie. Compared with what she'd expected him to ask, it sounded manageable.

"When?"

"How about now?"

"Okay."

Harold opened a box on the floor and took out a cream sweater and a skirt. Claire relaxed.

She changed in the fitting room. The sweater was snug across her chest; the skirt was shorter than she'd expected, black and cream with a floral print. She liked the way they looked together.

Harold's face lit up when she returned.

"You look great. What do you think?"

"I love it."

"Ready for the next one?"

"Sure."

The next outfit was a pink trapeze camisole and denim shorts. In the fitting room, Claire realized her bra showed beneath the spaghetti straps. She took it off and pulled on the camisole. The fabric hung loosely from her breasts, her raised nipples showing through the thin pink material. The shorts barely covered the bottom of her rear.

It wasn't something she'd wear to work, but she liked the reflection.

Harold was waiting outside the curtain. He whistled when she came out, making her jump.

"Let me fix that strap."

He adjusted one shoulder, then the other, pulling the fabric away from her as he worked. Claire couldn't see exactly where he was looking, but she remembered the camera angle.

"How does the fabric feel to you?" she asked.

He rubbed the hem between his fingers.

"Try moving around."

She stood awkwardly.

"Tell you what," he said. "Let's change the display window."

"I know what we should use."

Having something familiar to do helped. They cleared the display and undressed the mannequins. Harold knelt to remove a pair of shoes while Claire reached up to lift off a shirt. Her camisole rose with her arms, exposing the undersides of her breasts. He looked up from the floor.

Afterward he examined the seams while she talked. He traced one down the side of the camisole, then pressed his fingers to either side and pulled gently. One hand pressed against her breast.

Claire stopped talking.

He straightened.

"I think it looks okay. Go ahead and change."

She didn't need to be told twice.

"This actually helps me quite a bit," he said as she went into the fitting room. "Thank you."

Claire left telling herself she understood what had happened. He had taken a few looks and pushed his luck with the strap. She hadn't liked all of it, but it was over.

And she was getting the weekend off.

Five

After that, Harold found reasons to ask again.

A box of samples needed testing. Claire was the right size. She was already there at closing. Each request resembled the one she'd agreed to before, and each time she could tell herself she knew what she was accepting.

By autumn it had become a routine: closing time, a box, the fitting room, then Claire walking out to turn while Harold looked.

She thought she understood the arrangement. He got to look. She got a favor or a little extra money. The camera footage had unsettled her because she hadn't known about it. This, she told herself, was different.

Around that time she decided to ask for a raise.

She had started a list on the back of an old receipt. The duplicate charge she'd caught on a delivery. The closing shifts she'd covered. The returns the other girls left for her because she knew how to handle an angry customer without giving away half the shop.

She hadn't written down anything about samples.

Twice she considered adding them. They were extra work too. But she could already imagine the conversation wandering off the page if she mentioned them, and she wanted an answer about the things she'd actually written.

Before going into the office, she unfolded the receipt and read it once more.

She waited until closing and went to the office.

"I'm all finished up front."

"Okay, thanks."

"I was thinking. I've been here over two years, and I do a lot of extras. I think I've earned a raise."

"You do, do you?"

"I do."

"How much did you have in mind?"

"An extra five dollars an hour."

"And what would you be doing for this extra pay?"

"Assistant manager."

Harold smiled.

"I don't need an assistant manager. I have four employees."

"Then leave the title," she said. "We can still talk about the pay."

Harold turned his pen between his fingers.

She waited. Usually she would have helped him out by laughing or adding that she understood. This time she kept her mouth shut.

Somewhere on the floor, a hanger slipped off a rail.

Neither of them went to pick it up.

Claire looked down.

"I'll tell you what," he continued. "I got some new clothes I was considering for the floor. Try them on tonight, and I'll give you an extra hundred."

It wasn't what she'd asked for, but it was money.

"Okay. What do we have?"

He passed her a box containing a bra and a pair of panties.

"Where's the rest?"

"That is it. I'm thinking of expanding our merchandise."

She took the box into the fitting room and drew the curtain. Only then did she stop to consider the difference. The other samples had been clothes. This was underwear.

The bra was thin and low-cut, its shallow cups leaving part of her pale, puffy areolas exposed. The panties sat low on her hips. She studied herself in the mirror, then opened the curtain.

Harold was behind the counter, where she'd left him. He looked up and went quiet.

Claire had worn bikinis to the beach without thinking twice. This didn't feel like the beach. There was no one else in the shop, and he looked at her as though there were nothing else in it.

"Well?" she asked.

He blinked.

"Turn."

She turned, watching him in the opposite mirror. He didn't look away.

"This one's a little small."

"It's supposed to sit low. That's the style."

She looked down at the cups.

"And people wear this under normal clothes?"

"Sure. Every day."

She wasn't convinced. She was also aware of the hundred dollars waiting on the counter.

She changed back into her own clothes, collected the money, and left. Halfway to her car she realized he hadn't said whether he was going to stock the set. He hadn't made a buying decision at all, at least not one he'd shared with her.

He had wanted to see her in it, and she had agreed to let him.

She put the money in her purse. It still wasn't the raise she'd asked for.

At home, a friend texted.

"Did you ask about the raise?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Claire took the money out of her purse and laid it beside the phone. She counted it, although she knew how much there was.

"We talked about it," she wrote.

The reply came while she was still looking at the screen.

"That's not an answer."

She turned the phone over and went to put the kettle on.

Six

The samples changed after that.

There was a silk camisole from a French line, unlined and smaller than Claire expected. Harold asked her to try it without a bra so he could check the drape. The loose neckline fell away when she bent over the display table. He adjusted a strap while she straightened.

There were thin white yoga pants. He asked her to squat and stretch so he could check whether the material turned transparent. It did. Her auburn hair showed through the front panel, and the fabric outlined her labia. He took photographs for the vendor.

That was how he described them: photographs for the vendor, checks on opacity, questions about fit. Claire no longer believed looking was incidental. She believed she could keep it separate from anything else.

Harold paid attention to the shop, too. The low tables, the mirrors, the cold air, the cameras. Alone in the office, he could return to what he had already watched on the floor.

The next lingerie samples were organic cotton and mesh, in a shade the catalogue called oatmeal.

"Customers keep asking for something soft," he said. "Something that doesn't feel like underwear."

Claire took the box into the fitting room.

The bra's cups were shallow, leaving the upper portions of her areolas above the edge. The mesh panties were low and narrow. Her auburn hair showed through the weave and above the waistband; the fabric pressed closely against her labia.

She looked in the mirror. It felt less like clothing than anything he'd asked her to try.

When she came out, he was waiting near the end of the aisle.

"This is wrong," she said.

"Is it?"

"Look at it. It doesn't fit."

He looked for a while.

"What doesn't fit?"

"The top. My areolas are showing. And the bottoms don't cover everything either."

"Come closer."

She did.

He examined the bra without touching her at first.

"The cup's sitting low. That's the line."

"It's below my areolas."

"It's supposed to sit low."

He eased the edge of the cup downward with one finger.

"There. That's where the line goes."

"So they're supposed to be out."

"It's a French design. They run small and they're cut low. It's built to lift and present, not cover everything."

She looked at her reflection.

"And the bottoms?"

"Same idea. Low at the hip, narrow at the front."

"They're sitting under my hair."

"That's the cut."

"I still think they're too small."

"Then let's be certain. Try a few poses. If they hold, they fit."

She folded her arms, then let them fall.

"Fine."

He asked her to walk to the end of the aisle and back, then turn slowly.

"What are you checking?"

"The back seam."

She turned. He said nothing about the seam.

"Bend and pick up the sweater."

"Why?"

"Cup gaping."

She bent. The cups fell away from her breasts, leaving him a clear view down the front.

"You're not looking at the sweater," she said.

"There's nothing to look at on the sweater."

She straightened.

"Next."

He asked her to reach for the top rail to check the band, then put her hands on her hips and arch her back to check the straps. Each movement shifted the cups lower. She watched herself in the mirror while he watched her.

"Sit on the table."

"What does that check?"

"Stretch in the waist."

She sat. The mesh pulled taut across her.

"Knees apart," he said. "The gusset."

"You need to check the gusset."

"Yes."

She moved her knees apart. The front panel stretched flat against her labia, with hair visible at the edges.

"That's how it should sit," he said.

"That's how it should sit," she repeated.

"Last one. Lean on the counter, weight on your elbows. Like you're working."

"And that tells you?"

"How it wears during a shift."

She leaned forward. The cups gaped again.

"Stay there a second."

"How long is a second?"

"Longer than this."

When she stood, she looked at the mirror once more.

"It holds," he said. "It fits."

"It fits if you don't mind everyone seeing me."

"Everyone doesn't mind."

She laughed once, without much amusement.

He handed her two hundred dollars, already folded.

"Wear them tomorrow. Under your clothes. I want to know how they hold up over a shift."

"Long-term comfort testing?"

"I want to know how they wear."

"Fine."

The next morning she put them on beneath a thin blouse and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror.

It's underwear, she thought. Under clothes.

She spent the shift aware of the mesh and the low cups. Her nipples showed through the thin blouse. Customers looked; two women asked what she was wearing underneath.

She told herself the air conditioning made it worse. It was easier to complain about the temperature than reconsider the previous evening.

The displays had moved too, toward the brighter aisle. Twice Harold dropped a pen near her feet. The second time she noticed him looking before she had straightened.

She knew he was looking. The question she kept avoiding was why she still treated that as something she could control simply by knowing about it.

Later, during training on the inventory system, he stood behind her at the computer. She clicked through the menus while he leaned over her shoulder. Reaching for the mouse, his knuckles brushed the side of her breast.

She went still.

"Sorry," she said automatically. "I was in the way."

"You're not in the way." He stayed where he was. "It's the bra. It's riding up on that side. Doesn't it bother you?"

The cup had slipped, and the wire pressed into her breast.

"It's a little tight."

"Take it off."

"Now?"

"Nobody's in here."

She looked around the empty store, then reached beneath her blouse, unhooked the bra, and worked it out through a sleeve. Harold watched while she settled the shirt.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better."

It was, which annoyed her. The discomfort had been real, even if she doubted his interest in solving it.

She didn't put that bra back on. Afterward she often worked without one, though not always. The store was still cold, the blouses were still thin, and she was no longer surprised when she caught him looking.

Seven

Harold was counting the till when the bell rang.

He had rehearsed the evening on the drive in. There was new stock in the back and an order to place by Friday. He had expected Claire to arrive sober.

She came through the door sideways and caught herself against the counter.

"Hi," she said to the bell. Then she saw him. "Oh. You're here."

"Claire."

"You're here," she repeated, then frowned at having said it twice.

"You're late."

"I am."

"Five minutes."

"I know. I ran the whole way."

"You ran drunk."

"I ran fast," she corrected.

She swayed, steadied herself, and smiled at the counter.

A colleague's birthday, prosecco, a banana instead of lunch. Her ponytail was coming loose. She had to concentrate to stand still.

"You owe me," Harold said.

"For being late?"

"For being late."

He handed her water. She drank it in one go.

"Okay. What do I do?"

"There's new stock out back. Resort line. I've got to place the order Friday, and you can't see how it sits on a hanger."

"Okay."

"Try some on."

She pushed away from the counter, then sat on the bench instead.

"Stand up slowly," he said.

"Don't tell me."

He had already set out the box. He wanted to be inside the fitting room this time, rather than watching her come out. For the first outfit, though, he stayed on the bench outside.

It was a cream sundress with a loose, low neckline. Claire changed behind the curtain, came out, and turned without being asked.

"It's fine," she said.

"The neckline has to hang right."

"It hangs."

"Bend forward."

"Why?"

"To see if it falls away."

She bent with her hands on her knees. The neckline hung open over her bra.

"It falls away," he said.

"Obviously it falls away."

"Stand up."

She did. He took the edge of the neckline between his fingers, eased it outward, and let it fall.

"It's meant to sit low."

"It's meant to sit low," she repeated, too tired to continue arguing about a neckline.

He handed her a tank top and shorts.

She went behind the curtain, talking while she changed. A question about the size came through indistinctly.

"What?" he asked.

She repeated it.

"I can't hear you."

Her head appeared around the curtain. She held it closed beneath her chin.

"Is the tank the size up or the size down?"

"The size up."

"Okay."

She disappeared again. Harold stood outside a moment, then drew the curtain back and stepped in.

"What are you doing?"

"I couldn't hear you through that."

"It's a curtain. It's not a wall."

"It's thick."

She looked at him, then shrugged and reached for the tank. Harold took the shrug as permission to stay.

There was barely room for two people. He stood with his back to the mirror. Claire had taken off the dress and was wearing a plain grey bra and panties. When she turned away, he looked at her back and the freckles across her shoulders.

She pulled the tank over her head, then stopped with it bunched above her chest.

"Do you need the bra off?"

"Would you wear one with it?"

"It's sheer."

"Then no."

She unhooked the bra and took it off. Her breasts came free, the wide, puffy areolas raised in the cold. Harold watched until she pulled the tank down.

"The fabric's thin," he said.

"It's a tank."

Her nipples showed through the cotton. She gestured at them.

"See?"

"See what?"

"The fabric."

"That's not the fabric. That's you."

"You've got big nipples," he said.

"Do I."

"Big and puffy. They stand right off the cup. Most girls have a coin — you've got a saucer."

"A saucer," she said, as if filing it somewhere.

"It's why nothing sits flat on you."

She looked at the mirror, at the two pale coins doing exactly what he'd said, and still found a way to blame the cotton. "It's the air conditioning."

"It's not the air conditioning."

He reached toward the shoulder strap, then put two fingers against the fabric over her breast instead. He could feel her raised areola through the cotton. His knuckle moved against her nipple, and she stopped speaking.

"Why?" she asked.

"Fit."

"You're in my shirt again."

He didn't answer. She looked at him for a long moment, then looked away.

She knew where his hand had been. She also knew that asking why hadn't made him move it any faster. With her head swimming, she couldn't decide how to continue the argument, and the moment passed without being resolved.

He handed her the shorts and stepped back as far as the room allowed.

"They're tight," she said while pulling them on.

"They're meant to be."

"Not like this."

"Bend and see if they pull."

She bent, straightened, and said they did.

"They're fine," he said.

She came back onto the floor in the tank and shorts. When he handed her the next sample, he followed her behind the curtain again. This time she didn't ask why.

The black miniskirt was cut to sit on the hip. She held it against herself and looked at the mirror.

"It's a belt."

"It's the cut."

She tried it over the shorts. He shook his head.

"It's a beach skirt. It's meant to sit on skin."

"So the shorts come off."

"Underwear shows too."

She looked at him, then back at the skirt.

"Fine."

She removed the shorts and panties. The little skirt barely covered her.

"Turn," he said.

She turned. The hem swung.

"Now bend and pick up the hanger."

"Why?"

"To see if it hides you."

"Hides me from what?"

"Bend, Claire."

She reached for the hanger, and the skirt rode up until it covered nothing. Her skin was smooth; she'd kept it shaved for weeks. Harold looked at her bare labia for longer than any check required.

"You're not looking at the hanger," she said.

"There's nothing to look at on the hanger."

She straightened and steadied herself.

"It hides you," he said.

"It hides me?"

"Standing."

"And if I bend?"

"It doesn't."

"Then what's the point?"

"It's a beach skirt. You're on a beach."

She looked at the empty shop but didn't answer.

The next sample was a small bikini, two triangles and strings. She changed out of the tank and skirt. When she came out, she held the top against her chest.

"I can't get it on properly."

"You've got it on."

"It doesn't cover."

"Come here."

She approached.

"The cup's too small."

"The cup's fine."

"Look at it."

He pinched the edge of one triangle between his fingers. Part of her pale areola remained exposed above it.

"The cup's low," he said. "That's the cut. French."

"French."

"French."

He let the fabric settle and looked at the bottom. Its narrow front panel left her labia visible on either side.

"That's too small too," she said.

He crouched and tugged the fabric upward. It pulled taut without covering any more of her.

"See?"

"That's what I said."

"You're full down here too." He ran the edge of the fabric back, and she showed on either side of it. "That's why it won't close."

"Because it's too small."

"Because it's narrow. The panel's a finger wide. You're three."

She looked at where he was pointing and made a small, unconvinced sound, and put it down to the panel.

"It's the cut."

"It's too small."

"It's meant to sit on the skin."

She stared at him.

"You keep saying French."

"Because it is."

"It's still too small."

"Try a few poses."

She exhaled.

"Fine."

"Turn and touch your toes."

"What do my toes have to do with it?"

"The back panel."

She bent. The narrow strip disappeared between her buttocks.

"Look at that. Swallowed it whole," he said, from behind her.

"Swallowed what."

"You."

She was folded over, hands on her shins, upside down and losing the thread. "It went in," she agreed, as if he'd meant the string.

"It went in."

"You can see everything," she said.

"I can see the back."

"You can see my whole..."

"You're on a beach."

He crouched behind her.

"Straighten your legs."

"Why?"

"To see if it hides you."

She straightened her legs without standing. The string pulled tight, leaving her anus visible beneath it.

"Right," he said.

"What?"

"You can see your butthole."

"What?"

"A little. When you bend."

She tried to look back at him.

"And that's okay?"

"It's a beach."

"That's not an answer."

He stayed crouched behind her.

"It's not just your butthole I can see," he said.

"What do you mean."

"From back here? Everything."

She tried to look back at him and lost the angle. "That's not an answer."

"It's an answer." He had a hand flat on her hip, steadying her. "You've got more of yourself down here than this thing has room for. That's all it is."

"More of myself," she said.

"Wide and soft. And wet, for what it's worth."

"Wet," she repeated. "Wet from what."

"From being looked at. Pick a reason."

She thought about it for longer than it deserved. "Is that a good thing."

"It's a fit thing."

"You won't remember me saying any of this."

She didn't.

"Here," he said. "Let me show you."

He put a finger into her vagina and a fingertip into her anus. Claire made a startled sound.

"Oh."

She tried to look again, lost her balance, and kept her hands on her shins.

"You've got both..."

He moved his fingers.

"Both of them," she said. "Why?"

He thought about how to put it. "It's a joking way to show you it's too small. Everything's visible. Really everything."

She laughed. It came out too loud for the empty shop and tipped her forward, and she had to catch herself on her shins.

"That's a lot of a show," she said. "For a beach."

"Too much of a show for a beach."

"Too much of a show for a beach," she repeated, delighted with it. "You're thorough, you know that? I admire that. So thorough."

She said it like a toast.

"Thank you," she added. "For making me laugh."

"Any time."

He moved his fingers.

She made a small, distracted noise, halfway through a word, and kept talking anyway.

He continued while she remained bent over.

She stopped talking. He continued while she remained bent over. When her knees gave way, he caught her across the front and lowered her onto the bench.

She lost consciousness before her head settled against his arm.

Harold stood there holding her. She was breathing, but she did not respond. He withdrew his hand. She didn't stir.

He carried her to the couch in the back room and took off his shoes.

There was no more talk of seams or fit. He told himself there was no reason to stop.

He ran his hands up her legs and moved the remaining fabric aside. She did not wake. He put his mouth on her, then inserted two fingers.

He added a third, then a fourth. She made a small sound against the cushion without opening her eyes. He turned his hand and pushed farther until it was inside her to the wrist.

He moved his hand, then withdrew it. She remained unconscious.

He climbed onto the couch, held her by the hip, and penetrated her. When she made another sound, he stopped and waited. She did not wake, and he continued.

After he came, he withdrew and sat back. Then he covered her with a blanket and went to his desk to decide what he would tell her.

At six, Claire woke to his hand on her shoulder and a glass of water in front of her.

"Come on," he said. "Up."

The couch. The back room. Grey light. Her mouth tasted like a battery. She looked at the blanket without remembering it.

"Drink."

She drank. Harold crouched beside the couch with coffee in his other hand.

"What time is it?"

"Six."

"Six?"

She sat up. The room tilted, and she waited for it to stop.

"Oh, God."

"You're fine."

"I'm not."

"You passed out."

She looked from the blanket to him.

"I don't remember sitting down."

"You didn't. You went sideways off the bench and caught your hip on the chair. I half-caught you. You're going to have a bruise."

She tried to remember a fall. There was nothing clear after the fitting room.

She shifted and felt a deep ache that didn't seem to be in her hip. Her hand went to her lower stomach.

"Something hurts."

"You went down hard."

"Did I land on the chair?"

"Over the side of it. Legs first. It's a folding chair. They're a menace."

She looked at the chair beside the desk. She couldn't remember it being near the bench, but she couldn't remember much of anything.

"Right," she said.

He had given her an explanation for a stretch of time she couldn't account for. She tried to fit it to what she felt: a chair, a bad landing, a bruise. It explained enough to repeat, not enough to remember.

"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "I'll get you a cab."

She let him help her stand and walk to the door. The mall beyond the glass was dark and empty.

In the cab she tried once more to remember falling. Harold's account was still the only one she had.

She opened a note on her phone and typed, "Fell against a chair."

At the next red light she read it again.

She moved the cursor to the beginning and added two words.

"He said."

The sentence looked different with them there. She read it once more, then added the time she'd arrived at the shop. That much she remembered.

She started a third line and couldn't finish it.

Then she thought of the security recordings. Separate files, divided by hour. There might be nothing useful on them. She didn't know what the cameras could have seen.

She knew how long the files lasted.

At the top of the note, she entered the date.

He watched the cab leave, went inside, and folded the blanket.

He could tell her more on Tuesday, he thought.

Probably....