Inside the aisles of 1960’s Honey Girl, amongst the assorted sundries moves Mrs. Mollycoddle the boss. Strict as sandpaper on wood she smooths out the daily wrinkles of the clothes store. Bowing to the cultured clientele she moves them to the expensive side away from Aileen fashions. Gertrude, her given name, would slide the “better” dresses into the curtained dressing rooms. She’d push pantsuits of fresh shades, wool blazers, silk blouses and dresses in sunlight yellow, evergreen, cardinal red. Her hair piled atop her head made you wonder if it was a pristine squirrel’s nest. Her lips were pursed crimson with eyes peeked blue and cheeks of over-shadowed rose. She would gab away with her patrons then shred them behind their backs.
She smiled with ice cube teeth as she checked out the shopper. “The spring gowns will be in Thursday,” Gertrude advertised as she folded snow-white tissue around the garment placing it inside the pink cardboard box emblazoned with the brand.
She rang up the total cost to both. Her shoulders straight like her mother demanded she’d been all that and more. With fake pride and snobbery she pretended she owned the place. Mrs. Mollycoddle, Gertrude, regularly chafed away her days craving it were actual.