The employee changing room had not originally been an employee changing room.

Before Harold rented the unit, the store had belonged to a beauty salon. The former tenants had left behind a narrow tiled room with two lockers, a warped full-length mirror, and a shallow shower whose drain made a hollow swallowing sound whenever someone ran the water.

Harold added a bench, painted the walls beige, and taped a sign to the door.

**STAFF ONLY — UNIFORM AREA**

Ismaela Haddad had worked at the store for nearly two years before he decided the employees needed uniforms.

"Brand consistency," Harold called it.

The shop sold inexpensive women's clothing beneath warm lights intended to make everything appear softer and more luxurious than it was. Mannequins stood in the glass storefront with their hips tilted toward the food court. A diffuser near the register released an artificial vanilla scent that clung to Ismaela's hair after every shift.

Until recently, employees had been allowed to wear clothing from the store and choose the outfit themselves.

Then Harold began talking about presentation.

Customers needed to know who worked there. Employees needed to embody the merchandise. A standardized uniform would make the store look professional.

The first version was ordinary enough: a cream blouse, a black knee-length skirt, and a small silver name tag.

It was not designed for Ismaela's proportions.

At twenty-four, she was only five-foot-four, but years of volleyball had given her strong legs, compact shoulders, and powerful thighs. Her waist was narrow, while her hips and glutes were full and rounded enough that skirts fitting properly at the waist rarely fit comfortably everywhere else.

Her bust created the opposite problem. A blouse large enough to close easily over her breasts hung loosely around her middle. A blouse fitting her waist strained across her chest.

Harold treated these ordinary fit problems as though Ismaela were doing something to the clothing.

"The blouse shouldn't pull there," he told her.

"My body is there."

"You may need a larger size."

"Then the waist hangs like a curtain."

"We need a clean silhouette."

"The silhouette is me."

Harold smiled as though she had made a joke.

Ismaela was Lebanese-Canadian, born in Montreal after her parents emigrated from Beirut and raised in a household where conversations moved easily between Arabic, French, and English. Her mother called her Ismaela when she was annoyed, Isma when she was busy, and *habibti* when she was worried.

Harold knew almost none of this.

He knew she had dark eyes, warm olive skin, and long black hair she tied back during work. He knew she played volleyball on Thursday afternoons. He knew she needed shifts because tuition was due.

Mostly, he knew what he could see.

Ismaela was accustomed to attention. Men looked at her chest. Women sometimes looked at her hips. Strangers made assumptions about confidence merely because her body was difficult to hide.

Being noticed was not the same as giving permission.

Harold increasingly behaved as though employing her gave him a proprietary interest in her appearance.

The first time he entered the changing room, Ismaela had her blouse pulled halfway over her head.

The door opened without a knock.

For one second neither of them moved.

The blouse was caught around Ismaela's forearms. Beneath it she wore a plain black bra and the uniform skirt. Her hair had come loose from its elastic and fallen across her face.

Harold stood with one hand on the doorknob and a folder beneath his other arm.

"Oh," he said.

He did not immediately close the door.

Ismaela dragged the blouse downward against herself.

"Harold."

"Sorry." His gaze dropped before returning to her face. "I thought you were finished."

"You watched me come in here."

"I saw you walk toward the back. I didn't know what you were doing."

She looked pointedly at the sign beside his head.

**UNIFORM AREA.**

"I need the supplier file," he added, gesturing toward a metal cabinet in the corner.

"Then wait."

"Of course."

Still, he remained for another beat.

His eyes moved across her again—not dramatically, not even quickly enough that he could pretend it had been involuntary. The blouse was still bunched at her elbows, and the thin black cups of her bra did not quite contain the heavy underside of her breasts. He looked at the crease where the fabric cut into her ribs, at the soft skin above the cups, at the way the skirt sat low and tight across the flare of her hips.

Then he backed out.

When Ismaela emerged, Harold was behind the register sorting receipts.

She waited for an apology.

None came.

Three days later it happened again.

This time she was fastening the last buttons of her blouse when the door opened.

Harold was carrying nothing.

Ismaela turned away immediately.

"What now?"

"I need to inspect the lockers."

"For what?"

"One of the inventory keys is missing."

"My locker does not contain an inventory key."

"I need to check all of them."

"After I'm dressed."

Harold sighed as though she were making a routine task unnecessarily difficult.

"I'm not looking at anything."

"You're standing in the doorway."

"I came in to find a key."

"Then find it later."

His gaze shifted toward the mirror.

In its reflection, Ismaela could see him looking at her back, at the blouse still open between her shoulder blades, and at the narrow strip of skin between the blouse and her skirt.

She caught his eyes in the glass.

For a moment they watched each other through the mirror.

Then he left.

"*Khalas*," Ismaela whispered.

Enough.

She locked the door.

That afternoon Harold called a staff meeting.

The store had four employees: Ismaela, Marisol, Tessa, and Priya, who worked two evenings each week. They stood around the register while Harold held a printed sheet.

"Someone locked the staff-room door today."

Ismaela folded her arms.

"The room contains store property and emergency supplies. Management must have access at all times."

"It also contains employees changing clothes," Marisol said.

"Yes. Everyone should knock. Obviously. But the door cannot be locked."

"Why do you need access while someone is changing?"

"It is a safety issue."

"What kind of safety issue?"

"Fire code."

Tessa looked toward the back hallway.

"There is no fire exit in there."

"That isn't what fire code means."

"What does it mean?"

Harold's mouth tightened.

"It means I am responsible for the premises."

He taped the policy beside the register. At the bottom, he had left a space for every employee to initial.

Ismaela did not initial it.

The changing-room intrusions continued.

Sometimes Harold knocked, but opened the door before she answered. Sometimes he called her name while already entering. Once he claimed he had heard something fall. Another time he said he needed to discuss a shift change immediately before he forgot.

Each incident was brief enough to deny and frequent enough to form a pattern.

"Sorry."

"Thought you were done."

"Didn't realize you were still in here."

Ismaela noticed he never made the same mistake with Marisol.

He never interrupted Priya.

He always seemed to know precisely when Tessa had finished.

Only Ismaela created this alleged confusion.

She began arriving early so she could change before Harold emerged from his office. When that failed, she changed quickly, keeping the blouse within reach and listening for footsteps in the corridor.

Harold noticed her haste.

"You're wrinkling store merchandise," he said one afternoon.

"They're uniforms."

"They belong to the store."

"They're polyester."

"That does not mean you should treat them carelessly."

The first redesign arrived at the beginning of summer.

Harold gathered the employees beside a carton in the stockroom and announced a "brand refresh."

The new blouse was white rather than cream. Its fabric was thinner, its sleeves shorter, and its neckline lower. The new skirt was fitted and ended several inches above the knee.

Tessa held the blouse toward the fluorescent light.

"I can see my hand through this."

"It is lightweight," Harold said.

"It is transparent."

"You wear something beneath it."

Ismaela looked at him.

For a moment he seemed irritated that anyone had noticed.

The following week, he changed his mind about what they could wear beneath it.

The memo was titled:

**NATURAL SILHOUETTE AND BODY-CONFIDENCE POLICY**

Harold read it aloud with the solemnity of someone introducing a civil-rights initiative.

"The fashion industry has historically imposed restrictive and artificial standards on women. Our store should celebrate confidence rather than shame."

Marisol glanced at Ismaela.

Tessa pressed her lips together.

Harold continued.

"Traditional undergarments often distort the natural line of clothing. Visible straps, cups, padding, and seams interfere with the designer's intended silhouette."

"What designer?" Tessa asked. "These arrived in an unmarked plastic bag."

"That is not the point."

"What is the point?"

Harold turned the page.

"Staff should present the clothing as designed."

Ismaela took the memo from his hand.

Halfway down, below several paragraphs about liberation, confidence, and oppressive beauty standards, was the real rule.

**Bras may not be worn beneath the summer uniform blouse.**

"You cannot be serious," Ismaela said.

Harold smiled patiently.

"This is about empowerment."

"You are a man telling four women that empowerment means not wearing bras at work."

"I am a store owner implementing a presentation policy."

"It is an underwear policy."

"Bras are products of a culture that teaches women to conceal their natural bodies."

Marisol laughed.

"You sell padded bras beside the register."

"That merchandise is under review."

Ismaela dropped the memo onto the counter.

"I am not doing this."

"No one is forcing you to work here."

He said it quietly.

That made it more effective.

Ismaela needed the job. Her tuition payment was due in three weeks. Her landlord had raised the rent in May. Harold knew because she had asked for additional shifts.

He did not have to threaten her directly.

He only needed to remind her that the schedule belonged to him.

Her mother called during Ismaela's break that afternoon.

"*Ça va, habibti?*"

"Fine, Maman."

"You sound angry."

"I'm at work."

"That explains nothing. You are always at work."

"I'll tell you later."

"Come for dinner tonight. Your aunt made kibbeh."

"I finish at nine."

"Then nine-thirty. *Yalla*, we wait."

Ismaela looked through the break-room doorway. Harold stood at the register, pretending not to watch her.

"I'll try."

"Not 'try.' Come."

"Okay, Maman."

"Good. And eat something now."

The call ended.

For a moment Ismaela remained seated with the phone in her hand, thinking about how impossible it would sound if she tried to explain Harold's memo.

The following Monday, she wore the blouse without a bra.

She put it on facing the wall, listening for footsteps.

The thin white fabric settled differently over her body than the cream blouse had. Without support beneath it, the natural weight of her breasts pulled against the material. Their shape was clear. So were the darker shadows of her nipples, two soft brown circles pressing faintly through the cotton whenever the air moved.

Ismaela buttoned the blouse to the highest point permitted and stepped onto the sales floor.

Harold looked up.

His eyes stayed on her chest long enough that she stopped walking.

"Well?" she asked.

He blinked.

"The fit is improved."

"The fit?"

"The fabric falls naturally."

"So the political objective has been achieved?"

He ignored the sarcasm.

"Turn around."

"No."

"I need to inspect the rear seam."

"You can see it from there."

Harold left the register anyway.

He walked around Ismaela slowly, pretending to study the garment. When he reached her side, he bent to examine the skirt's hem.

Then his hand came up.

He laid two fingers flat against the small of her back, just above the waistband, and pressed lightly, as if testing how the fabric sat against her spine.

Ismaela went still.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking the drape."

"The drape."

"It should lie flat."

"It has been lying flat for two years."

"Not like this."

His fingers slid a half-inch lower, following the curve where her narrow waist flared suddenly outward into her hips. Through the thin cotton Ismaela could feel the warmth of his palm, the blunt pressure of his fingertips, the slow, deliberate drag of skin against fabric.

Then he pulled his hand away.

"There," he said. "The seam sits better now."

"You did not touch the seam."

"I touched the fabric above it."

"That is not the seam."

"It is the same region."

Ismaela stepped away.

"What are you doing?"

"The hem is uneven."

"It was even ten seconds ago."

"You moved."

"Then inspect it on a hanger."

His face reddened.

"You have become very difficult lately."

"I am wearing the uniform you ordered."

"That is not the same as cooperating."

The second policy arrived ten days later.

This one prohibited visible undergarment lines beneath the fitted skirt.

Harold claimed that seams compromised its clean appearance. The memo did not explicitly forbid panties, but when Ismaela asked what solution he expected, he shrugged.

"Some employees may find it more convenient not to wear any."

"Some employees?"

"I am not discussing your personal choices."

"You are discussing my underwear."

"I am discussing brand presentation."

The rule technically applied to everyone.

Harold enforced it most closely against Ismaela.

He asked her to retrieve boxes from high shelves. He sent her to rearrange the lowest display tables. He assigned her to dress mannequins in the front window, where reaching upward pulled the blouse tight and caused the skirt to climb over her hips.

He also found new reasons to touch her.

One afternoon, while Ismaela was restocking a low table, Harold crouched behind her and hooked a finger inside the back waistband of her skirt.

"Hold still."

"What are you doing now?"

"Checking the gap."

"What gap?"

"Between the band and your waist. If there is a gap, the skirt will shift when you bend."

His knuckle pressed against the base of her spine, then skimmed sideways across the top of her hip before he withdrew it.

"There is no gap," Ismaela said.

"No," Harold agreed. "There is not."

He said it slowly, the way a man says something that means more than it says.

She began moving differently at work.

She kept her knees together when she crouched. She pressed the back of her skirt against herself before bending. She checked where Harold was standing before stepping onto the display platform. She learned to feel his eyes on her before she turned around—that prickle along the side of her neck, that particular weight of air.

The uniforms had altered the store.

Every task now contained a calculation.

Where was Harold?

What could he see?

Was he looking?

Was he pretending not to?

The worst part was his insistence that nothing unusual was happening.

If Ismaela objected, he spoke about professionalism.

If she covered herself, he accused her of shame.

If she told him to leave the changing room, he reminded her that store supplies were kept inside.

If she said he was staring, he smiled sadly and told her she had misunderstood.

The shower incident happened on a Thursday.

Ismaela played in an adult recreational volleyball league at the community centre. Matches ended at four-thirty, and her shift began at five. Normally she showered at the centre, but that afternoon the match ran late and the locker-room showers were closed for maintenance.

She arrived at the mall at five minutes past five wearing athletic shorts and a damp grey T-shirt. Her hair was tied in a loose knot. Sweat had dried along her temples and the back of her neck.

Harold looked at the clock.

"You are late."

"I came directly from volleyball."

"You cannot go onto the floor like that."

"I know. Give me five minutes."

"You smell like a gym."

"*Merci*."

"I am serious."

"So am I. I am going to change."

"You need to shower."

Ismaela glanced toward the staff room.

"I do not have shampoo."

"There is soap."

"I can wash properly at home."

"You are scheduled now."

"I am aware."

"You represent the store while you are on the floor." Harold adopted the mild, managerial voice he used whenever making an unreasonable demand sound inevitable. "Use the shower. Clean yourself up. Put on the uniform."

Ismaela wanted to argue.

Instead she looked at the clock.

Every minute spent fighting would become another minute Harold could cite when assigning next week's hours.

"Fine."

She entered the employee room and shut the door.

The lock was gone.

Not broken.

Removed.

A lighter rectangle marked the place where the metal latch had been. Two empty screw holes remained in the wood.

Ismaela stared at them.

"*Mon Dieu*," she whispered.

She dragged the bench in front of the door.

The shower water took nearly a minute to warm. She undressed quickly, folded her volleyball clothes on the bench, and stepped behind the cloudy plastic curtain.

Steam filled the room.

The tiles ran with condensation. The mirror fogged at its edges. Every sound bounced twice—once off the beige walls, once off the metal lockers—so that her own movement seemed doubled, as though someone else were in the room with her.

For several minutes, the rush of water drowned out the mall music and the distant conversations from the sales floor. Ismaela washed the sweat from her skin and tried to calm herself.

The door struck the bench.

Wood scraped across tile.

She froze.

The door pushed again.

"Ismaela?"

"Do not come in."

"I need to check something."

"I'm showering."

"I know."

The words landed differently from his usual excuses.

Not *I forgot.*

Not *I thought you were finished.*

I know.

The door pushed harder. The bench moved several inches.

"Harold."

"There may be a problem with the water pressure."

"There was no problem until you opened the door."

"I heard the pipes."

"Get out."

He entered.

Through the cloudy curtain, Ismaela saw his outline. He stood just inside the room with the open door behind him.

"The drain has backed up before," he said.

"The drain is fine."

"I have to make sure."

"You ordered me to shower five minutes ago."

"Yes, because you needed to."

"And now you are pretending you forgot?"

"I did not forget."

"Then why are you here?"

Harold did not answer.

Ismaela reached through the curtain opening for her towel.

The plastic caught against her elbow and pulled away from her body.

Harold stopped pretending to inspect the floor.

His eyes settled on her breasts—on their natural fullness, and on the broad, raised brown areolas that occupied more of them than he had apparently imagined. Steam beaded on her collarbone and ran in thin lines down the slope of her chest. The water had darkened her hair to black at the roots and pressed it to her neck.

Ismaela caught the towel and held it against herself.

"Out."

Harold remained motionless.

"I always wondered whether they were really that prominent," he said.

The room seemed to shrink.

Ismaela stared at him.

"You always wondered?"

He appeared to hear himself only after she repeated it.

"That came out wrong."

"No. It came out perfectly."

"I meant that I was surprised."

"Because you have been imagining my breasts."

"You are making this vulgar."

"I am making it vulgar?"

"Bodies are natural, Ismaela."

"My body is natural. You forcing yourself into the room to inspect it is not."

"You should not be ashamed of—"

"Leave."

Water struck the shower floor between them.

Harold glanced toward the hallway.

"Keep your voice down."

"Why?"

"Customers may hear."

"Good."

His expression hardened.

"You are already late for your shift."

For a second Ismaela almost laughed.

There it was.

The clock.

The uniform.

The schedule.

The mechanisms by which Harold converted every violation into an administrative problem she had supposedly created.

She tightened the towel around herself and stepped from the shower.

Water ran from her hair down her shoulders and pooled beneath her feet. She did not try to make herself smaller. Anger temporarily displaced embarrassment. The towel reached only from her chest to her thighs, and she could feel him measuring the gap.

"You sent me in here," she said. "You knew I was showering. You removed the lock. You pushed the bench aside. You stood there staring at me. Then you commented on my body."

"I was checking the drain."

"Do you inspect drains with your eyes on my chest?"

Harold looked away.

"Get out."

This time he left.

Ismaela dressed with wet hair and shaking hands.

When she emerged, Harold stood behind the register.

He did not look at her.

For the rest of the shift, she felt the water in her hair and the towel against her skin all over again, and every time she caught him glancing toward the back of the store she heard him say it. *I always wondered.* He had been looking at her body before he had ever seen it.

That night, alone, the thought made her want to laugh and made her furious in the same breath.

The following week he announced Beach Day.

It was, he explained, a summer promotion. The mannequins would wear resort clothes. A folding table would display sunglasses and sandals. Staff would serve fruit-flavoured water in paper cups.

"And the uniform?" Marisol asked.

Harold smiled.

"Swimwear."

"No," Tessa said immediately.

"It is one Saturday."

"No."

"It is promotional."

"We work in a mall."

"Exactly. We need to attract attention."

"Whose attention?" Marisol asked.

Harold ignored her.

"I have ordered three samples. We will select something tasteful."

He looked at Ismaela when he said it.

The fitting took place Friday afternoon.

Marisol had called in sick. Tessa's shift ended at four. Priya was not scheduled.

At four-fifteen, Harold placed a white cardboard box on the counter.

"Time to choose the Beach Day uniform."

Ismaela did not move.

"You choose it."

"I need to see how the samples fit."

"Use a mannequin."

"Mannequins are not shaped like real customers."

"Then try them yourself."

Harold laughed as though she had made a joke.

"There are only three."

"No."

His smile disappeared.

"This is part of the uniform-selection process."

"I am not trying on swimsuits for you."

"You work in a clothing store."

"I sell clothes. I am not your model."

"All employees assist with merchandising."

"Call Tessa."

"You are here."

The store was open. A mother and daughter browsed near the sale rack. Two teenagers stood outside the glass storefront, looking at their phones.

The ordinary public activity made Harold's demand feel even stranger.

Ismaela lowered her voice.

"After the shower, you think I am changing into swimsuits for you?"

"Nothing happened in the shower."

"You entered while I was naked."

"I inspected a maintenance problem."

"You commented on my areolas."

"You misunderstood an awkward remark."

"I understood you exactly."

Harold slid the box toward her.

"If you refuse a reasonable work instruction, I will have to record it."

"As what?"

"Insubordination."

"You would cut my hours over this."

"I did not say that."

"You never say it."

"The fitting room is available."

The first suit was a black one-piece with a narrow waist, high-cut legs, and a low back.

It fit Ismaela through the middle but had to stretch much farther across her chest and hips than the design allowed. The leg openings climbed high over her full backside whenever she moved. The fabric strained across her bust until the seams pulled white.

She remained inside the fitting room for several minutes.

"Ismaela?" Harold called.

She did not answer.

"We are open."

"I know."

"I need to see the fit."

She opened the door.

Harold's gaze moved over her.

"The cut is wrong," Ismaela said.

"The torso may be too long."

"It is pulling everywhere."

"There is bunching at the waist."

"There is not."

"Turn around."

"No."

"I need to see the back."

"It has almost no back. You know what it looks like."

"That is not a fit assessment."

"It is the assessment you are getting."

Harold took a step closer.

"Hold the shoulders," he said.

"Why?"

"So the fabric sits where it is supposed to."

Ismaela gripped her own shoulders.

Harold reached out and ran his thumb along the side seam at her ribs, from just beneath her arm down to her waist, pressing the fabric flat as he went. His thumb stopped at the point where her waist narrowed, and his fingers curled lightly around the back of her ribcage to steady her.

The heat of his hand came straight through the thin black nylon.

"There," he said. "The seam should be vertical."

"It is vertical."

"It was twisting."

"You are the one who twisted it."

A customer approached the register. Harold had to leave.

Ismaela returned to the fitting room immediately.

The second sample was a red bikini.

Harold had ordered the wrong size.

The top compressed rather than supported her breasts, while the bottoms fit at the waist but offered inadequate coverage over her hips and backside. The cups cut across the fullest part of her chest, pushing soft flesh upward into two faint curves above the fabric.

She opened the door only a few inches.

"This does not fit."

"I need to see."

"You ordered it too small."

"That may be the cut."

"It is the size."

"Come out."

Ismaela stepped into the fitting-room corridor.

Harold was waiting.

His expression brightened before he arranged it into a professional frown.

"The colour is strong."

"It is too small."

"Raise your arms."

"No."

"I need to determine whether the top shifts."

"Read the manufacturer's measurements."

"Ismaela."

"No."

Harold stepped in anyway.

"Arms up."

She raised her arms halfway.

He reached out with both hands and fitted his fingers beneath the band of the bikini top, one on each side, at the outer edge of her ribs. He tugged downward, testing the elastic, and his knuckles grazed the swollen underside of her breasts where the cups were cutting in.

Then he slid one finger under the strap at her shoulder and lifted it, letting it snap lightly back against her skin.

"The band is too loose," he said.

"The band is fine. The cups are too small."

"Lift your arms properly."

"It does not change the cups."

"Let me see."

He lifted the strap again, more slowly this time, and this time his thumb brushed the top of her shoulder bare, where the strap had been resting.

Ismaela said nothing.

For several seconds they stood facing each other.

Then the chime above the store entrance sounded.

Ismaela retreated into the fitting room and locked it.

The third sample lay at the bottom of the box.

It consisted almost entirely of strings and several tiny triangles of fabric. Ismaela lifted it with two fingers, trying to determine which pieces were intended to cover which parts of her body.

"No," she called.

"You have not tried it."

"I do not need to."

"It may fit better than it appears."

"It cannot possibly fit better than it appears."

"It is a micro-bikini. That is the style."

"It is not an employee uniform."

"Beach Day is supposed to be fun."

"For whom?"

"Enough."

Harold's hand touched the fitting-room door.

"This refusal will be documented."

"Good."

Silence.

"What?"

"Document it."

"I will."

"Write exactly what you ordered me to do."

"I have already explained."

"No. Write that you required me to try on three swimsuits during business hours. Write that the final one is a string micro-bikini. Write that you threatened to record me as insubordinate when I refused."

Harold said nothing.

Ismaela opened the door several inches.

"Put it in writing."

His face had gone pale with anger.

"You are being dramatic."

"Then writing it down should be easy."

Harold returned to the office.

He came back with a printed disciplinary form.

Under **DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT**, he had written:

> Employee refused to complete required fit assessment for approved Beach Day promotional uniform after receiving clear management instruction.

Ismaela read it twice.

"Add which uniform."

"That is unnecessary."

"Then I am not signing."

"Your signature only acknowledges receipt."

"Add which uniform."

Harold took the paper.

Beneath the sentence, he wrote:

> Item Three: store-supplied micro-bikini sample.

He signed his name at the bottom.

Ismaela folded the form and placed it beside her clothes.

Then she shut the door.

She put on the third sample.

Not because Harold had persuaded her.

Not because the demand had become reasonable.

She put it on because she wanted the completed act attached to the instruction he had signed.

The swimsuit provided almost no sense of being dressed. Two small triangles hung from the strings around her neck and back, doing very little to contain the full, heavy weight of her breasts. The bottoms were a scrap of fabric at the front and a thin cord at the back, tied at each hip. When she shifted her weight, everything shifted with her.

Ismaela stared at herself in the fitting-room mirror.

"*C'est ridicule*," she whispered.

She wrapped a towel tightly around herself and opened the door.

Harold was waiting.

"Remove the towel."

"No."

"I cannot assess the garment through a towel."

"You documented that I completed the fitting."

"I documented your refusal."

"I am wearing it."

"I need to see it."

Ismaela stepped into the corridor but kept the towel closed.

Harold reached toward its edge.

She caught his wrist.

The movement surprised both of them.

"Do not touch me."

"I was moving the towel."

"I know."

"You agreed to a fit assessment."

"I agreed to put on the sample. I did not agree to let you undress me."

"I have to inspect the straps."

"No touching."

"This is absurd."

"Then choose the black suit."

"The black suit was not flattering."

Ismaela stared at him.

There was no merchandising language left in the sentence.

No empowerment.

No silhouette.

No professionalism.

Only what he wanted to see.

The stockroom door opened.

Tessa entered carrying a handbag and a paper coffee cup. She had returned for the phone charger she had forgotten beneath the counter.

She stopped.

Her gaze moved from Ismaela's clenched towel to Harold's wrist in Ismaela's hand.

No one spoke.

Ismaela released him.

Harold stepped backward.

"We are conducting a uniform fitting," he said.

Tessa looked at the disciplinary form folded beside Ismaela's clothes.

"During business hours?"

"It is a promotional requirement."

"The final sample is inappropriate," Ismaela said.

"That is your personal opinion," Harold replied.

Tessa set down her coffee.

"Can I see it?"

Harold hesitated.

Ismaela reached into the fitting room, took the product tag, and handed it to her.

A photograph of the micro-bikini was printed on the front.

Tessa's expression changed.

"You wanted employees to wear this in the mall?"

"It is under consideration."

"You wanted Ismaela to wear it in front of you."

"I wanted an employee to evaluate the merchandise."

"Then why did you not ask me?"

"You had finished your shift."

"You ordered it before today."

Harold's jaw tightened.

Tessa looked at Ismaela.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes."

Harold selected the third swimsuit.

The announcement appeared the next morning.

**BEACH DAY — SATURDAY**

Beneath it:

**APPROVED PROMOTIONAL UNIFORM: SAMPLE THREE**

Ismaela stood before the notice for a long time.

Then she removed Harold's disciplinary form from her bag, made three photocopies at the office-supply store across the mall, and placed the original in a folder at home.

Her mother saw the folder on the kitchen table that evening.

"What is this?"

"Work."

"You look tired."

"I am."

"Sit. Eat."

"Maman—"

"Sit, *habibti*."

Ismaela sat.

Her mother placed a plate before her and studied her face.

"Is someone bothering you?"

Ismaela looked down at the food.

"Yes."

"Your boss?"

"Yes."

Her mother became very still.

"What did he do?"

Ismaela considered telling her everything. The doors that opened before she answered. The memo about bras. The comment about her body, said out loud in a room full of steam while she stood dripping behind a towel.

Instead she said, "I am making sure he writes things down."

Her mother reached across the table and covered Ismaela's hand.

"Good. And you tell me when you need me."

"I know."

"Not 'I know' like you will handle everything alone. You tell me."

Ismaela nodded.

"Okay."

"*Bien*."

On Saturday morning, she arrived twenty minutes early.

Harold watched her walk toward the employee changing room carrying the uniform box.

"Ismaela."

She stopped.

"The door remains unlocked."

She entered the room.

The lock had been reinstalled after Tessa complained in writing about its removal.

Ismaela turned it.

The bolt slid into place.

A few seconds later, Harold tested the handle.

"Ismaela."

She removed the micro-bikini from the box and placed it on the bench.

Then she changed into the original cream blouse and knee-length skirt.

"Open the door."

"No."

"You know the policy."

"Which policy?"

"Management access."

"Put it in writing."

Silence followed.

Ismaela buttoned her blouse.

On the other side of the door, Harold remained motionless.

She could picture him standing beneath the **STAFF ONLY** sign with one hand still resting on the handle, deciding whether another written instruction would protect him or expose him.

"You are required to wear the approved promotional uniform," he said.

"Write that down too."

"I already issued the notice."

"Write that you require me to wear that particular micro-bikini while working in a public mall. Write that refusal will affect my employment."

"You are twisting this."

"Then explain it accurately."

"Open the door."

"Write exactly why you need the door open while I am undressed."

He did not answer.

Ismaela fastened her name tag.

She placed the Beach Day notice beside his signed disciplinary form and photographed them together with her phone.

Then she looked at herself in the warped mirror.

She could still feel the pressure of his hand against her ribs in the fitting room, and his thumb moving slowly up the strap at her shoulder. She could hear him saying *I always wondered*. She could remember every knock that had not been a knock, every door opened before she answered, every supposedly liberating rule that happened to leave her more exposed.

Outside, Harold shifted his weight.

"Ismaela," he said again, more quietly.

She gathered her hair into a ponytail.

"Write it down."

He remained silent.

Eventually, she heard his hand leave the doorknob.

His footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Ismaela waited until they disappeared before unlocking the door.