Free Among the Living by Timothy Long Page A

Cambria Boutique, and Helen is at her side in a flash.
    “I know it came in this morning, give me just a moment.” And she goes to a rack behind the counter. There are a few other items wrapped in fresh crisp plastic that crackle together as she checks tags. “Here it is,” she pulls out the item and tugs the plastic up so Shylah Rae can get a look at it.
    The dress is a wisp of nothing. Sheer silk, the black seems to reflect the light in the room and pull attention to it. Something about synthetic fibers wrapped around the silk. Some new process from Japan that will be all the rage in no time.
    She touches the fabric, and it is as soft as she remembers, soft as a baby’s rear end. George won’t be able to take his eyes off the tiny thing that barely covers her ass. Her rear end that she has been perfecting for a month at the gym with squats and more squats, leg lifts and a personal trainer named Stephanie who might as well wear horns and parade around like the devil.
    “It’s beautiful,” Shylah Rae exclaims, and Helen beams a smile at her that is all pearly white goodness and could stop traffic. She is taller than Shylah and older, probably well into her thirties, but she is also tall, statuesque and probably gets looked at by every geek who wanders by the store.
    “Want to try it on?” Helen asks, but she doesn’t have time. She has to stop for some undies and then get home, soak in a hot bath and get ready for the night. Her hair will take at least an hour.
    “I’m good, thanks.”
    “Well you are all paid up, so enjoy your new dress. I bet your man won’t let you out of the house wearing it, he’ll be so jealous.”
    She smiles and nods, thinking that George is anything but the jealous type. He is sometimes so indifferent to her flirty manner with other men that it concerns her. What if he isn’t serous about her? What if he is just in it for sex? Not that the sex is terrible.
    He is very successful, vice president at a bank—even though he told her banks have more vice presidents than tellers. She knows he is joking about that, because he drives a nice car, a Lexus, and he always dresses in expensive clothes. In fact, he often looks like he just stepped out of a Hollister ad.
    She clicks out of the store on her three-inch heels, skirt swaying over her hips. Her tanned legs look great against the maroon fabric, like she should be in a commercial.
    Shylah Rae takes the elevator up one more level to stop at Victoria’s Secret for some new goodies.
    Her brand-new platinum Visa weighing heavily in her purse after an hour at the shop, she leaves with a handful of bags and crosses the street. Taking a right, she walks to the parking lot and her little convertible BMW. It’s a deep blue and spotless in the fading daylight. It better be, for all the money she pays a detailer once a month at the Bear car wash.
    A homeless man huddles near the pay machine, and she steers around him.
    “Can you spare some change? Just a little?” He doesn’t even bother to meet her eye. He probably has crabs and other diseases crawling all over his body. She pretends she doesn’t hear him and walks out of her way to go around him. She skirts a silver Mercedes and then a Kia with a license plate that reads TOYBOYS.
    A groan from the old man, and she turns to look at him. She doesn’t want to, but he sounds like he is in pain.
    He wears a faded Levi t-shirt and squats against a pole. One arm is wrapped around his knee, and he holds the other against his chest. He keeps looking down at something on his arm, but she can’t make it out.
    He is filthy, hair a frizz that goes in twenty-seven directions at once. A scraggly beard completes his look, and he even has dirt and smeared brown on his face that looks like dried Coke or something.
    He shakes, and she feels bad for him. She works hard, sure, but her mother used to say it is good karma to share the wealth with those less fortunate from time to time. She hits the button on