Free The Sharp Time by Mary O'Connell Page B

Charbonneau and when he hands the woman her change, he gives her an extra ten-dollar bill. The woman takes her coat—in deference to Mother Earth, she passes on the plastic bag we offer—and counts her change. Her long, oatmeal-colored hair blankets her face until she peers up like a blond mole, and says, “Uh, I think you gave me too much change.”
    Bradley winces as he appear to check his math, looking into the cash register drawer, and then rolling his eyes. He takes the ten-dollar bill the woman is holding out to him. “Math is not really my forte,” he says with a humble nod.
    And I see the inherent genius in this preemptive cash game—if there is ever a question of wrongdoing, it will simply be because Bradley is not good at math. Henry Charbonneau has witnessed him actively being not good at math, and it all makes sense to me, because clearly Bradley likes the weed and I’m not sure if the vintage-clothes game would keep him high.
    Henry Charbonneau sighs in faux exaggeration. “This is why I’ll never retire in Paris. This is why I’ll be slogging off to the estate sales at eighty-five in soggy Depends and dentures, Bradley.”
    Granola Woman gives a twitchy, repentant smile, looking truly distressed that she may have caused someone any trouble—or perhaps it’s just the adult diaper reference—and I long to say, You, O Lady of Natural Fibers, are but a cog in the wheel of financial deceit .
    But then Henry Charbonneau puts his hand on Bradley’s shoulder and gives him an apologetic smile for the faux scolding. Bradley blushes and it’s all too much for me, I turn away and start digging through the stack of dresses on the counter. Henry Charbonneau does have lovely taste: a lime wool shift, a hot-pink polished cotton cocktail dress, a cranberry sateen dress with glass beads on the bodice and a tiny waist, an heirloom from the days before trans fats and fast food. I suck in my stomach even though I am at my all-time skinniest—105 pounds. Still, I shudder in solidarity when I see guys in Jeeps with their NO FAT CHICKS bumper stickers, because hello, those kind of guys would not like a skinny chick like me, and my thoughts zoom away because I am not paying attention, I do not even know how to pay attention and Catherine Bennett swoops past and graces me with a saccharine smile, her teeth plastered with cockroaches.
    When I look up, Bradley is frowning at an acrylon sweater that is zebra-striped and has dolman sleeves. The sweater is not even attractive in an ironic way, but then, Henry Charbonneau does have a weakness for ugly-chic.
    So I’m ruminating on an eighties acrylon sweater when I see Bradley reach up and touch his shoulder, the spot where Henry Charbonneau laid his hand. Bradley closes his eyes and rubs his shoulder, a delicate motion that makes me think of the circular radiation of tree rings, and the heat kicks on and the Pale Circus fills with the smell of wool and warm candy, the sweetest lamb.
    “Children,” Henry Charbonneau says, waving his hand at Bradley, at me. “Go get yourself some lunch.” He opens his wallet and hands me a twenty. A bit of benevolence meant to impress his new lovah.
    “Thanks,” I say.
    Bradley hangs his last sweater regally. He doesn’t gun it to the front door like I do. He walks, slow as a moon man, offering up a backward wave when Henry Charbonneau chirps, “Bye, kiddos.” Paul calls out, “It was really nice to meet you both.”
* * *
    And then Bradley and I are out the door to a cold cloudy day of old snow, the wind taking our breath as we walk down the sidewalk, the monastery at the end of the street looking like a magical hushed heaven where your earthly problems would melt away—ta-da! Except there is a troubling bronze crucifix hanging over the entrance, the face of Jesus in his lukewarm and perplexed faith, two lines of a metal frown pinched between his eyebrows, his mouth a neutral line.
    “Do you want me to drive?”
    “That’d be