Free The Sharp Time by Mary O'Connell

cash register, takes out ten dollars and tucks it into his front jeans pocket—no furtive glances, just business as usual.
    Then there is the panic and flurry of me trying to act like I didn’t see as Henry Charbonneau walks into the Pale Circus with a man as tall and good-looking as himself, such a foxy doppelgänger that you immediately assume that love or even fondness is an impossibility, that what you are seeing in tight focus is pure, distilled narcissism. But who am I to say? I am not ruling out the mystical. The only thing I can be sure of is what I see: Bradley slipping away from the cash register, Bradley among the sweaters, Bradley raising his face and giving Henry Charbonneau and his friend a quick nod, a “hey” of calculated casualness.
    And of course I am well acquainted with that hey; it is the last word you say before you cast your eyes down and pretend that nothing is happening, that your brain is not a crush of OhIamsofucked . I watch Bradley watching Henry Charbonneau from his peripheral vision: Henry Charbonneau is all cheekbones and smiles. His arms are full of vintage dresses, a rainbow clutched to his chest. He looks surprised to see me, even though he wrote out the week’s schedule. Henry Charbonneau heaps the dresses on the counter—a good day at the estate sales—and says to me, “Mornin’, sweet lady.”
    His friend smiles at me in a comradely way, as if to say, He’s kind of an ass, but how can I help myself? , and I try to conjure a knowing grin to convey that, yes, the handsome jackass in his native habitat, though perilous, is often irresistible.
    “This is Paul.” Henry touches the crook of Paul’s arm, a tender, paternal gesture.
    Paul keeps his sheepish smile going strong as Henry Charbonneau massages his arm.
    I have always thought the phrase “his face clouded” a hilarious expression— Baby, glue some cotton balls to your forehead and give me a great big cumulous smile . But when I look over at Bradley, who is studiously buttoning up a Kermit-green cardigan, his face really does cloud, a gray shadow rising from his neck to his forehead.
    Henry Charbonneau raises his hand to me, and says, “Paul, this is …” And this is not his fault, but in this pregnant pause, Catherine Bennett looms in, her coffee breath flooding my face as she asks, “Sandinista, do you even know how to pay attention?” In my mind’s bloodshot eye, I turn to her and say—politely, and with a modest smile: Mrs. Bennett, please do not forget that I have a … what’s the name of that metal apparatus that shoots bullets? Mrs. Bennett? Yoo-hoo?
    Poor Henry Charbonneau searches for my name in a brain so very filled with Henry. See also: foxiness of; see also: aesthetic genius of, etc. I feel Catherine Bennett’s voice vibrating in my chest, in the bruised spot on my ribs.
    I am afraid if I speak I will start to cry.
    This is only my second day at the Pale Circus, so Henry Charbonneau’s forgetting my name is totally understandable. Well, then again, he did hire me, which, according to Bradley, is pretty rare. Bradley says I was lucky in my timing because I walked into the Pale Circus just as Henry Charbonneau had enjoyed some kind of winter wonderland weekend with his new lover. I got the job because he had fallen in love, love, love, love and wanted to spend less time at the store. Although really it was Catherine Bennett’s timing—her Monday madness—that changed the course of the week. Henry Charbonneau has Catherine Bennett to thank for his sudden freedom to wander the estate sales and stop at cafés for baklava and lattes with his new love.
    “This is the new girl,” Henry Charbonneau finally says. “Is she not a peach?” he asks, pointing to my melony cashmere sweater. “Is she not a little doll in the house of life?”
    Already I know that Bradley and I will be mocking this last phrase, and this releases me from Catherine Bennett’s death grip. I smile and hold out my hand to