Free American Housewife by Helen Ellis

I imagine a loose Lifesaver adhering to the nylon. Women never think to hang their things on the fancy peg where they took the kimono. I shut the door in disgust and hang the bras on the towel rack. Myrtle tolerates my curtness because she’s heard tell of what will happen now that we’re alone.
    From the bedroom, the Fitter says, “Start with the basic.”
    I take the full-coverage off the hanger and unhook the triple clips. The bra is black with a baby blue satin ribbon between the cups. I hold the straps with my hands in the ten-and-two position.
    Myrtle drops the kimono to land in a puddle at her bare feet. There is no reason she should have taken off her jeans, socks, and shoes. It’s a fitting, not a pelvic exam. When I pick up the kimono, I see she’s painted her toes. Had them painted, more likely. No one can do a French pedicure right on her own feet. A French pedicure is an investment. A French pedicure is what some women get to go on their honeymoons. When the Fitter and I went on our honeymoon, I had my toenails painted red. Red is what good wives wear. French pedicures make your toes look like fingers. You look grabby. French pedicures are for man thieves.
    I say, “Who did your toes, Myrtle? That maroon-headed know-it-all down at the blow-out shop you call a mother?”
    Myrtle says, “Barbara sends her love.”
    “Barbara doesn’t know me.”
    Barbara is the manicurist where I get my wig fixed. I’ve had to wear that wig for a good part of a year now, and I’ve learned that if I don’t get it washed and styled once a week, the top of my head looks like something has crawled up on it, had a seizure, and died. No matter what time I make an appointment, from opening to close, Barbara is ever present at her nail station, gossiping at a volume loud enough to carry over three hair dryers while she dunks hands of all ages into paraffin wax. When my wig comes off, Barbara and her customers practice the Southern Lady art of staring without overtly staring. But I can feel their eyes like hot-from-the-dryer fabric softener sheets stuck to my clothes. They each cling to the hope that one of them will take my place.
    Because the Fitter is richer than any man they’ve ever met. And he’s humbler. He has one truck, one fishing boat, and one house. And he’s devoted. He has one shop and one wife. Barbara and her customers want the regular beauty parlor appointments that being that wife afford me. Except Barbara wants this for her daughter.
    Now that she’s sent Myrtle here, I must look worse than I think.
    I don’t like Barbara. And I don’t like her daughter because I don’t trust any woman who calls her mother by her first name.
    Myrtle says, “Don’t leave me hanging.”
    I can’t help myself: I say, “Good one.”
    I present the bra like a straitjacket, and Myrtle slips her arms through the straps.
    And then my hands are on her breasts. That’s just the way it is. I don’t think about whom I’m handling, I just handle her. I scoop. I pour. I pack. I hook. I adjust straps. Not too tight, but tight enough to leave a mark. I’m fast. I get Myrtle locked and loaded before she can blink.
    The Fitter says, “Well?”
    Myrtle looks in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She pivots. She gapes. Her breasts sit above her rib cage.
    “Oh, thank you!” she cries to him. “Thank you, thank you!”
    The Fitter says, “Hop.”
    Myrtle looks to me and I nod. I hate it when they hop. When they hop, every woman is a sixteen-year-old girl. Myrtle hops and for the first time in a long, long time her breasts don’t
boing
like Slinkies.
    “Oh!” she cries.
    The Fitter says, “See there.”
    “Oh, I do! Thank you! I do I do I do!”
    Myrtle will not shut up about what the Fitter has done for her because women love men who excel at their craft. More so, they love men who are faithful. And what’s more faithful than a married fitter who doesn’t touch, much less
look
at another woman’s