Rosie chewed her bottom lip for a moment, then set down her fragrance, thus committing a cardinal sin in the eyes of her supervisor. “Bring a mop,” the man on the speaker finished sleepily. The PA system sent a ripple of static into the atmosphere, forcing everyone to plug their ears, which Rosie could only accomplish with one finger since she was still holding a perfume bottle. “Janitorial services to cosmetics.”īoth kids burst into noisy tears, neither one of them making a move to get up off the floor. Please.”įeedback screeched over the department store PA system. “Kill me now,” the mother wailed at the ceiling, turning bloodshot eyes on Rosie. Perfume bottles hit the floor with a cringe-inducing smash, the scents of several fragrances pooling and combining in what could only be referred to as too much of a good thing. Rosie managed to lunge out of their way, but one kid’s legs got tangled in the other’s and they went sprawling, both pretzels turning end over end like tumbleweeds into a Dior display, which tilted, wobbled, and crashed onto its side.
On the off chance someone wanted to smell like begonias and sandalwood right before bed.Ī squeal rent the air and two children holding giant mall pretzels came tearing through her aisle, their mother sprinting after them with no fewer than three bags on each arm. There were no pleasure cruisers at the mall this late, but she was required to stay until the very end. The only customers left in Haskel’s were buying last-minute birthday presents or shopping for impromptu job-interview clothes. A little over half an hour to go and she was exhausted from standing on her feet since three o’clock.
Rosie leaned over the counter and checked the clock on the register: 9:29. Martha worked her evil in backhanded ways. She would just get the shittier-smelling perfume to demonstrate tomorrow. If Rosie was caught taking an unscheduled break, she wouldn’t be docked pay or anything so serious. One might surmise that Rosie was in the military, instead of a perfume girl at the mall. Rosie hobbled over to the Clinique counter in her high heels, watching out for her supervisor, Martha, before performing a casual lean against the glass, groaning as the pressure on her toes and ankles lessened. Why wouldn’t customers let her make them smell good? Was it so much to ask? In order to fulfill that title, someone would be required to consult her first, right? Problem was, no one ever asked to be spritzed with perfume. Really, that’s what her name tag should have read, instead of COSMETICS CONSULTANT. Rosie Vega: a department store shopper’s worst nightmare.
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