By late afternoon, I was feeling pretty sure I'd called it right to
come up here. I phoned the boss, reported not quite as optimistically
as I felt and told myself that I was clocking out.

The evening rush home had started, horns and rumbling of motors as
downtown spilled its people out for another night. I went the way the
red lights let me; to the corner where he'd said his store was. I
hadn't really meant to, I told myself. But...

It was a pretty block. Seventy years ago, maybe more, a builder or
banker saw a picture of a Spanish plaza, a square in Venice, and liked
the way you could make shade against a too-fierce midday sun by letting
a second story jut out over a walkway, propped on a line columns. In
such a gallery you wanted shops, small follies of elegance in a town
where elegance was usually a thick steak, big cigar and brandy.
Sometimes, a block like that will stay just like the builder or the
banker planned and years later someone will run a palm over the carved
stone frills framing the windows, trace tangles of leaf, spot a small
figure, just as a stone-cutter had hoped. It was that kind of block
where he had his store.

At the corner, at his store, in the window: a headless mannequin, a
strapless dress. A hanger, flying towards a ceiling: prim blouse,
pleated pants trail behind. Two high-heeled sandals touch toes by
discrete gold letters on a window: Boutique. Salon.

Push the door, a tiny bell. From somewhere behind a splash of colors,
maze of hanging fabric, each a promise even more full of hope than a
woman's morning closet, a voice: "Can I help?" a lilt, cut off.

A look. That look? She turns away, calls to the back: "He's here."

Then quick-steps past me -- like she's angry? -- flips a sign by the
front door to say the place is closed, and leaves.

"Hey," I hear him, a few steps behind me. "Glad you came by. Come on,
back this way." He held a hand out, as if to point, as if to lightly
touch a shoulder to steer me the right way to go.

The clothing racks, a table, a mannequin had made a sort of anteroom by
the front door, that now he beckoned me to leave. Behind, hidden from
the street, a slightly larger space, a table. Small neat stacks of rose
and white and soft gray, like a long-haired cat. A rack of dresses down
one wall, of shirts -- blouses -- and skirts down the other. A wall,
dark wood, cut halfway across the back, another room behind.

"So," he said. "So."

What else to say?

"Find what you needed?"

"Some," I whispered. "Some."

"Going to keep looking?"

"Oh yes," I said. "I've got to."

"Can I help?"

I shook my head, kept looking all around.

"Ah," he said, watching me close. "Maybe, then, I can help you find
what you want."

A minute, two.

Then he turned, walked fingers along the hangers, stopped. His back to
me, I couldn't see what he was holding until, after a moment, he spun
quickly on a heel, and let the dress float along behind.

I shouldn't care, you shouldn't. Just a dress, hanging flat and empty
as he held it for me to see. And even if you put it on, it's just the
surface: the last, most distant trace along the border. The walls, the
guards, the minefields are farther in. But the first layer, delicate as
onionskin, you must somehow peel if you want to find the core. Risk
those tears. Just a dress, bright flowers on white, full skirt to swing
with steps, to be toyed with by a breeze. Sort of old fashioned, meant
for a picnic in the park, a Sunday in the garden.

It was just the right thing to have picked. But though I wanted to
reach out and take it, I did not. Held still. Or not quite still,
because of a trembling -- in my knees? behind the curve of lower back?
Weakness or fear, or maybe both, I couldn't say. Anticipation?

I looked at it, and wanted. He looked at me, eyes opaque, the lines of
face and mouth set in a butler's neutral gaze upon the world. Folly? I
see no folly, sir. Ma'am.

I wait for him to say something, to explain himself, to push. Know that
when he does, the moment breaks, I'm free to say nice to have met, I've
got an early day, free to go back to that neat room perched high above
the now-dark city, let TV blare, get lost inside a book, do a little
more work before I go to bed. Or something else.

But he just waited for me.

And so I took the dress. As I lifted it from his hand, light as it was,
his arm rose just enough to gesture, invite me farther towards the
back. He led me past tables piled with lingerie, stopped, cast an
appraising eye at me, back at the table. Picked up a bra, a satin slip.
A pair of panties. Led me back. Silently pointed to a dressing room.

I knew I would, though I barely knew how. I wanted my own clothing to
vanish, the mechanics of slipping arms free, of hanging up, of kicking
off heavy shoes would force me, I knew, to have to tell myself that
what was happening was something that I wanted to happen. Me. What I
wanted.

Help me find what I wanted, he had said.

He waited very patiently. The bra was awkward for me to get on. It took
a while to steel myself to slide that pair of silky panties up my legs.
It wasn't clear to me if you stepped in to the dress or pulled it on.
But when I pushed the door open, he was there, to take my hand, to
gently pull me out. Not caring that my legs weren't smooth, my lips
were bare. Not caring that I didn't know the art.

"Let yourself glide," he whispered. "Don't fall into your steps."

Then, like a skater pushing his partner into her pirouette, he let his
hand drop. Let me glide.

I glided.

****

I woke up, right with the dawn, alone in the hotel room. On the plush-
covered armchair by the window, three shopping bags, heavy brown paper,
twine handles. Tiny letters of his store's name in a corner --
sometimes you shout best with a whisper. Bemused -- he'd seemed
bemused, or maybe simply knowing but not wanting to let on how much he
knew -- he'd let me explore the store, showed me how and where to go.
What I had tried and what he approved, for his taste was better, was in
the bags.

The dress I'd tried. Another, meant for an evening date: black, meant
to hug curves I didn't have, meant to flutter a hem, to tickle, halfway
up my thigh. A fantasy of lace and silk for underneath. I tried them
all, lied to myself about my wanting, lied to myself that I looked
right in his mirrors, in the careful light, the rosy glow.

We barely spoke a word; we touched only by accident, a gesture just an
inch or two too broad, a stumble in a pair of heels. Silent, he'd
folded dresses, lingerie into his brown bags, handed them to me, let me
slip out into the night.

I was the first one at the coffee place that morning, sat in the sun
with paper, coffee, once again, watching the palms so that I didn't see
him arrive, set coffee down, shake out a Bee and read.

"Another coffee?" he asked, after a while. "On me?"

You know, of course, how ordinary things, little things -- a cup of
coffee, strange bird diving from a palm tree, a grunt over an item in
the morning paper -- can seem illuminated with meaning in the quiet of
an empty street, the morning sun, the feeling somewhere deep beneath
the surface things are changing.

You know that you could stay suspended in such a moment forever.

But then, the first commuter putters by, the sharp smoke of exhaust is
in the air. The coffee's finished, a buzz of voices rises by the
cashier.

"Big day?" he asked, as he stood to go.

"Could be," I said, perhaps talking about my work. "Maybe I'll nail it
today, tomorrow."

"And then?"

I shrugged.

"Depends, I guess. Catch a flight back, it's kinda loose."

"Weekend's coming," he said.

I nodded.

"Come round, maybe." he said. "If you like."

I thought I wanted to. Knew that I shouldn't. Told myself that, in my
hotel room that evening, looking at the papers stacked upon the desk,
database splashed on laptop screen, listening to my boss tell me to
take all the time I needed. There were the shopping bags, thought: I
really ought to take them back. Told myself that's what I thought. I
heard the horns bleating, a dozen stories lower down. Saw that the sun
was lower than I'd guessed. I thought, he closes soon. I really ought
... I was fingering the smooth, slick satin of the slip. I really
ought...

With a lurch, a sudden decision I wasn't aware I made, I pulled myself
out of the chair, into the bathroom. I stripped, fast, angry almost. I
tugged on the panties, pulled on the half slip. Not right. No.

Still racing, the fog of disengagement rising behind my eyes, same as
when I stumble through my model's strut, I twist the bathtub taps, run
water hot as I can stand. It is the kind of hotel that leaves not only
tiny bottles of shampoo but also a sachet of bath oil: in it went. I
take my razor.

I never dared to shave my legs before; what kind of guy does that? The
crunch of the razor harvesting hair from the curve of calf: a pathway
cleared like some strange machine of war's chewed through the barbed
wire at the border. But what about the guards, the mines?

One calf, the other. One shin, two. Slowly up a thigh. Bend and turn
and slowly shave the other. If you take care, you won't even cut
yourself.

Calmer now, I ease the panties up, feel slick cloth on smooth skin.
Pull on the camisole, ignore how it bunched when I yanked trousers back
on. In a daze, an almost daze, for I knew where I was headed, to the
elevator, through empty lobby, down the street. Tapping at a glass
door, sign that said closed.

"Ah," a smile. "I was hoping..."

Something caught his eye. I wore no tie, maybe he saw a flash of
something where I'd not buttoned my shirt, maybe the way a strap tugged
shoulder, catching the cloth.

"I was hoping," he said again. "Come on inside."

I followed him to the back. Whatever it was that seized me, swept me
here, a thought without a form, a need, a wave of unnamed feeling
boiling over, started to dissipate, fading to confusion, maybe fear.
And yet I followed.

He held a chair, the kind of chair you keep for decoration, a fancy
back, no arms, embroidered cushion, tucked it under me as I eased down.
Grabbed another, swung it round, straddled it like a cowboy on a horse.
He sat like that a while, thinking. Looking.

"You know," he said at last. "I'd kinda like a bite to eat. You think
you might?"

I did. Maybe, I thought, maybe that's all I really needed.

But he kept sitting. I held still. I thought perhaps he was just
thinking of where to go, maybe just enjoying the quiet at the end of
day. Maybe thinking, how he wanted things to go. Maybe. His voice so
low, I almost could've missed it:

"You want to try ..." I waited, expecting him to name a restaurant, a
place to go. But: "I've got something you might like." He nodded over
towards a table.

I guess it was what you'd call a suit that he'd laid out there, the
kind of thing that lots of women in this town would wear, to say I'm
serious, to say, don't judge too fast, to say I am a lot like you are.
Not too much like a man's, not navy blue, not gray. But not too
different, either. In this town, only the secretaries, the lazy ones,
wear pink or red. So: a brown the color of my too-sweet coffee in the
morning. A skirt, maybe not so narrow that a quick trip down the
corridor for a file that you forgot would set his mind to wander where
you were not ready for it to go. Just right to tug crisply over knees
in case the office couch is just a shade too low, or there's a minute
after swapping business cards you need to fill. A high-necked, pale
blouse, tiny fringe of lace along the collar. I looked at the clothing
lying flat and empty, looked back at him.

"If you should want to try," he started, shook his head. "No. Let me
try again. I'm happy to head out now. We'll get a bite, chat for a
little. Not about the Kings. Read the paper, you'd know what I do,
anyway. I study, just to know things I can say to folks. But if you'd
like to try..." He nodded at the table, "And I think you might like
that. I can help."

He reached out, held the hanger up. "It's a kind of disguise, you know.
My bread and butter here. A woman who might buy this, buys it to go out
in to world, to say, okay, I am a girl, but let's set that aside for
now, 'cuz this contract really needs a looking over, and that bill's
moving out of committee, here's what I think we should do. It is a way
to keep the, I want to say emotion, passion under wraps. To keep the
fundamental separate from the day to day. It won't ever be draped over
the back of a hotel chair when she and he pour themselves into each
other's arms. If you should like to try, it should do for you what it
will do for her."

If I should like to try.

"Say: O.K., I'm a girl," he murmured. "The back door here opens onto an
alley. A block, my car is there. Five minutes, ten. I park. Ten steps,
a dozen. I hold a door, then when you're through, slip past to tell the
girl there's two. Maybe I'll wink, ask for a private corner. There
won't be many people, maybe none. I'll hold your elbow just to steer
you to the booth in back. I'm a big guy, you're someone in a skirt,
long-enough hair. All anyone will see is an ordinary couple, out for a
bite. A meal, a talk. Glass of wine, two. Dozen steps to the door, a
dozen to my car. The alley." He softly clapped his hands. "There.
You've done it. If you should want to try."

My hands somehow had floated to my throat Not quite touching, but still
I felt my pulse hammer.

Two fingers gently pull, thumb pushed, button undone.

I saw his eyes dart to the feathering of lace I had unveiled. Widen.

"I would," I said.