I hear her lock the shop from inside.
I’m standing in the display window, and with the corner of my eye, I see her hang a “CLOSED” sign on the door.
She ties her hair back with an elastic band she was keeping between her lips.
She walks towards me, wiping her hands on her blue jeans, and whispers, “It’s your turn, Mister.”.
Her slender fingers begin to unbutton my shirt. She has warm hands.
When she pulls off my sleeves, she’s so close I can smell her hair.
One by one, she takes all my clothes off, and puts a “SALE” tag on each.
Tilting her head to one side, she purses her lips while her eyes scan me up and down.
And they linger on my crotch.
She goes to the back of the shop and comes back with a large roll of brown paper.
After measuring a length of it around my waist, she cuts it to size.
She tapes the paper to my midriff like a mini skirt, steps back to look at me, and smiles.
I’ve seen her do it to the others. In a few days, she’ll take the paper off me, and she’ll dress me for the new season.
A mannequin’s life is measured in seasons.
And this was my first.