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shy woman’s pain. The mail lady walks in, always in a hurry with a fast smile and faster hands. She drops it with a nod and a wave and is back out the front door. The silly and relaxed grin on my face departs when I see the newspaper.
    Ronald Armstrong is dead. The police are looking for clues as to how it happened but don’t mention how he died.
    They don’t mention his name, either. He is a man, a random man, who is dead. The picture is hazy and funny looking. It doesn’t improve on his overbite or skinny face. But I would know him anywhere, unless he too has a clone out there who has died unfortunately. His jowls and skinny face might haunt me the remaining years of my life.
    Ronald Armstrong is dead, and I don’t know how I feel about it all. I feel detached, yet like I should be feeling something for the man I never knew.
    Angie and the woman come to the counter, carrying a dress and a wrap. Her eyes dart to the newspaper, lighting up like she’s heard the tale or recognized the story. “Grisly, isn’t it? The news said he wasfound down in Denny Blaine Park. He was on the beach, stabbed a hundred times or something.”
    My stomach drops. “That’s terrible.” I walk to the far side of the room, pretending to sleeve the clothes so they look tidy. But inside I am panicking.
    I don’t even know why.
    I didn’t know the man.
    The woman leaves, smiling and happy about her purchase, as Angie opens the door for the deliveryman bringing the boxes of new inventory for us to hang and display.
    She and the driver of the delivery truck get on like old friends. But I ignore them, desperately trying to sort the emotions I don’t understand or completely feel.
    There is something buried beneath the layers of things I cannot find in my head and heart that bothers me dearly about the random death of a perfect stranger.
    “Oh, look at this one, Jane. It’s so you. Have a go with it.” She holds up a dark-red dress made of a satin-like fabric. It’s deep and intense. I don’t fight her on it but walk mindlessly to the dress she’s holding up and take it, sliding the soft fabric between my fingertips.
    I carry it to the changing room like a zombie, peeling off my sweater and slacks. In the mirror there is a flash of something beyond my pale-pink underwear and bra. Something of a history is there, beyond the scars and the red lines. It’s a road map I suddenly need—crave.
    I run my hands down the scar on my ribs, savoring the knobby feel of the ropey scar. The stitch marks on the sides are faint, but when I touch them I see something, a face. It’s a man I don’t know, not at all. He’s shaking his dark hair, touching the scars with his thick fingers, but I don’t shy away from the touch. The image might as well be a movie I’ve seen once. It’s hazy and lost in a mist I won’t ever wade through, not completely.
    I drag the dress on, robotically. Angie was right—it’s perfect for me. My long dark hair shines in contrast to the deep crimson of the dress. My small breasts are pert and perky, giving me the respectable amount of cleavage a proper lady wears. The creamy pallor of my skin is the exact color needed to wear a dress like this one. Too tanned or dark and you would bring out the orange in the red. But I am ghostly white, so the red stands strong. My oddly colored blue eyes and long lashes seem black under the bright lights, as if my pupils are the only things in my eyes.
    I would look pretty, beautiful actually, if I could get past the frightened expression on my face. But it’s fixed there, stunned and stuck.
    “Let us have a look. Ya can’t go putting it on and not show.”
    A small grin cracks my face, lighting up my looks a bit. I step out from the changing room, spinning for Angie to see. She clasps her hands to her ruddy face. “Oh, now. Och. Ya look like that actress Julie Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. Ya recall the hooker movie? Ya have to know that one.”
    “Julia Roberts,” I mutter,