Periwinkle, Not Mustard

[NOTE: Verbal abuse, spousal control, and divorce.]

The double doors automatically whisk open in front of her shopping cart, inviting her to enter its brightly lit and warm interior. She takes a breath, forces her right foot to move forward, and steps into the store.

Saturday shopping. A perfectly normal, everyday ritual for people everywhere. Maybe not for her, but for most people. 

Mother and daughter. Best friends. Coworkers escaping the office. Even people out solo, enjoying a day of doing whatever they wanted and buying whatever they wanted. 

Whatever they wanted. 

She wasn’t even sure she knew what she wanted. How did they, and do so without the beads of anxiety pooling on their forehead? 

She tried to have the Shopping Day she saw the women in movies enjoying, or that she heard the wives of her ex-husband chatting about. They would get together in the early morning, have brunch around 11 a.m. at one or another of their favorite cafes, head to the mall for a couple of hours of shopping, make a Starbucks run, and then come back home. Sometimes, these shopping trips went better than they did at other times, but they were always fun days out. It’s all about knowing what you like, she heard the wives say. They were always confident, certain, and free of the worry they were breaking the rules. But, even after the divorce, she is not free of that worry. That worry is always there. But, knowing what she liked was not.

Monday morning, she starts her new job here in Texas; today will be a Shopping Day. She had planned it for weeks.

When out at the mall, among the smiling and laughing crowds, moments of Freedom are possible, as they rarely were at home. Technically, she has been Free for four weeks and five days and could have gone at any time. (28 years old, living alone for the first time, she seems to always have a reason she cannot go out, always has something she must do first before she can do such a Fun thing – the Shopping Day has been postponed several times already.) But, today is Saturday, it’s 10:30 a.m., and she is stepping into Target in the city she, at last, came home to after five long years, a sunny Saturday morning following a comfortingly warm night, there’s a Starbucks just inside with a Caramel Macchiato on its menu, and she is fully Allowed to be out shopping.

But, her heart speeds up just the same.

She was never allowed to spend the money she made, and the idea of Shopping for non-necessity items was always more of a fantasy than something she ever thought she’d be doing. She can’t shake that “I’m going to get in trouble. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m not allowed to be here” feeling, which seems a bit unfair, perverse even, when she has been Free for four weeks and five days – more than a month.

She really wanted to bring a friend along, but it’s been hard to reconnect ever since she moved back to the state. The friends she said no, which is fine, it’s okay, so she ventured out on her own. After all, this is a perfectly normal thing – Shopping Day. 

She heads toward the clothes, but then pauses and thinks better of it. So many options here, and there are some things she’s already laid eyes on that she would love to wear – if she could dare herself to do that. She wouldn’t want to look “fussy” or inadvertently “show herself off to everyone.” The clothes she was heading toward are the safe option, the ones that would have been approved of. 

Well, if she’d been allowed to buy them in the first place. 

She carried an emptiness, deep in her chest, that sat with a heaviness stronger than anything she had ever felt for the man who had been her husband for eight years, certainly stronger than anything she had felt for anyone in her family. 

Sometimes, in her lowest moods, alone, but not always physically so, self-pitying, and deeply ashamed when she had been recently corrected once again, she had thought she was in love with her ex-husband – but, this is a thought she didn’t hold for long. She didn’t actually know, but she was still pretty certain love didn’t feel like this. It felt like something, and she didn’t feel anything. And how he would chuckle in amused contempt, disdainfully, mocking – “I know!” – if he were told so.

She is suddenly acutely aware of herself. Always wearing the same black hoodie, baggy and shapeless, rumpled, and old, as if she slept in it. Her t-shirt tells people she likes Hello Kitty, and her ripped jeans, with their dangling silver chain, are probably more commonly seen on a middle school student. She is twenty-eight years of age. 

Once, her ex-husband saw her wearing clothes he had never seen before and had most definitely not approved. A white paste had gathered in the corners of his mouth as he spits the sentence at her, “Jesus Christ, you look like a whore. An old whore,” he said. “I didn’t buy those. Where did you get those clothes?”

“Oh – Cherie thought I’d – I mean, Cherie was shopping and thought I’d like this shirt. I already had the shorts. You bought them a long time ago.”

“Did I buy that shirt? Would I ever say that shirt and those shorts were okay?”

“No, but you bought the shorts.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t look good in that.”

She is embarrassed and disappointed, her pale hazel eyes shining like glass. “I’m sorry. I thought you did. I’ll go change.”

“Throw those clothes away,” he said, waving her away. “No, wait. Might as well give them to someone who could actually wear them. Fold them and bring them to me.”

She had been surprised at her ex-husband’s wanting to donate the clothing, and it softened how offended she had felt. But, that only lasted up until she saw one of his female friends wearing her clothes. They did look better, she supposed.

She heads to the clothing she wouldn’t be allowed to wear, getting a little bit of a rebellious thrill. So many cute outfits! – so many options for work! She reflects on what she should be buying – what he would have told her to wear – the more subdued, plain, and shapeless items for work and the more brightly colored, sarcastic-sloganed shirts for daily wear – but she’s soon distracted by the sophisticated, yet subtly alluring blouses, the fitted slacks, and the blazers for sale. 

She laughs softly to herself, surprised she’d forgotten her favorite color was periwinkle. She thought it was mustard for years. But, she doesn’t even like mustard. In fact, she actually really hates yellow.

She takes a winding path through the tables and displays to the other side of that clothing department, to the Intimates she never was allowed to browse. She knew her ex-husband was quite adept at buying satin, lacy lingerie, and things of that nature, though she never owned any – she’d seen the receipts and email invoices many times. 

She starts looking through the racks, and the items on the display tables, and peeks into the drawers of variety after variety after variety of sexy underwear – thongs, boy shorts, see-through lace, satin with ribbons, and the rest. 

A small hill starts to grow in the middle of her cart, and she is smiling.

From there, she moves on to the shoes and then the bags, and then heads to the Beauty department. After she loads up her cart with more items, including some makeup she plans to learn how to use with the help of YouTube makeup tutorials, she pulls out her phone.

Ayn checks the time and sees with satisfaction that it’s just after 12:00 p.m., leaving her plenty of time to grab a big, greasy cheeseburger (extra pickles) and a milkshake on the way home to put her new treasures away, and then watch Persuasion while she excitedly remembers the rest of who she is. 

She is Ayn. She likes to look sophisticated and sexy. Her favorite color is periwinkle, but she hates yellow. She likes to eat fast food every now and then – especially while watching historical romances. 

She is Ayn. 

She smiles, remembering. 

• Alexia P. Bullard, alexiapbullard.com