Sales Associate 

Last fall I was in a serious relationship with the boy who worked at H&M. By relationship I mean I was always at H&M because I was bored and had a lot of disposable income from two waitressing jobs and he worked there. The first time I laid eyes on him, he was wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. While at work at H&M. Why do I always fall for the bad boys?

I would slink around the store, my arm weighed down by prospective garments, trying to catch his eye so I could be let into the dressing room. He was never looking though. Actually he might have been asleep.

His disgruntled employee side really came out when I paid for my clothes. He never seemed to care how I was doing that day, except sometimes when I asked him first. I consider myself a fiercely independent woman, so it never bothered me when he didn't read me my total. I could do that myself. But he always just assumed that I wanted the receipt in the bag. I mean, I did, but still. Call me old fashioned but it’s nice to be asked.

My friends told me I was being stupid. The guy at Guess will greet you at the door, they said. At J. Crew they’ll bring you a bigger size if you need it, no questions asked. At Bloomingdale’s they’ll wrap your clothes in tissue like it’s your birthday every day.

But I didn't care. I didn't want any of that. They didn't understand that the heart wants what the heart wants, and my heart wanted inexpensive and simple dresses that could be cinched at the waist with an apron and thrown in the wash in case I dropped a plate of huevos rancheros on myself. And nobody else sold me them the way H&M did. Besides, as Stephen Chbosky said, we accept the customer service we think we deserve. Or something.

But things didn't really get better. Even though I had been shopping there for months, every time I used my card he would ask for my ID. I wanted to reach across the counter, grab him, look him in the eyes and plead, “It’s me. You know me, don’t you remember?” Sometimes I used cash, but he would slash my twenties with that black marker even though I never gave him a reason not to trust me. When he gave me my change the coins would scatter across the counter. I defended him every time. It’s better to have had quarters and lost than to never have had quarters at all, I’d tell myself. Finally he’d shove the crumpled garments into a plastic bag even though I told him that I didn't need one.

I didn't even know him anymore. Where was the man who once let me return a blouse that was both worn and washed? Where was the man who let me take eight garments into the fitting room because, “Yeah whatever it’s fine”? I thought he was gone forever, until the day I bought that dress.

I needed a dress for my sister’s baby shower. And that fateful day, I found an azure silk shift with floral detail, the perfect balance of feminine with the right amount of blue to celebrate my future nephew. But by this time I had learned to keep the excitement of my finds to myself. As time went on it became clear we had less and less in common, and we just didn't appreciate the same things anymore. We didn't agree on the important stuff.

I brought it to the register. He removed the sensor. Scanned the tag. His hands hovered gently over the fabric for a moment before he folded it ever so delicately and slipped it into the bag.

“This is a really nice dress,” he said, smiling.

I walked away that day knowing he truly hoped I had a nice evening. And I hoped the same for him.