“I am a regular customer. I’ve dropped off clothes every Friday for the past three months.”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed behind her microframed glasses. “I work Fridays and I’ve never seen you.”

“Of course you have. I talk to you every week!”

The young woman’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve never seen you.”

Joyce pulled back and shoved her hands in her pockets, torn between crying and screaming. Maybe she should do both. Throw a hissy fit, see if that made her more memorable next time. She sized up the clerk, considered throwing herself at the young woman’s mercy, telling her the truth. Look, I’ve just been through the world’s shittiest divorce. I have my first date tonight and this old black dress may not look like much to you, but it’s the only thing I have to wear.

Joyce imagined saying the words. Imagined the clerk’s reaction. Imagined the smirk, the glitter of condescension. Imagined her response, “Oh, I’m soooo sorry, but no. Can’t do it.” Another smirk. Now piss off, you old cow. No twenty-year-old ever imagined herself sinking so low, her self-confidence puddled around her ankles, her ratty apartment and divorce petition exposing her failures as a wife, a woman.

“Piss off to you, too,” Joyce muttered under her breath, gathering her dress from the counter and swooping from the store with as much dignity as she could muster.

The door swung closed behind her. Joyce paused, and looked up and down the street, hoping another “same-day cleaning” sign would miraculously appear. There must be other places in town, but she had no idea where they were. She’d only moved there three months ago to take a job from a sympathetic friend.

She inhaled sharply. Okay, maybe she didn’t know where there was another cleaner, but she could find out. Joyce strode to the nearest phone booth, pushed open the doors, reached for the phone book…and found an empty chain.

“God-fucking-damn it!”

She hiccuped a laugh. Now that felt better, didn’t it? She glanced down at the dress slung over her arm. Ten years old. Ten years out of style. Made for a woman ten years younger. Screw this. If she was going on a date, she was doing it right. Break the bank and buy a new dress. Maybe something from the sales rack at Barneys. She checked her watch. Not yet seven. If she started work early, she could take an extended lunch hour, use the time to buy a dress. She smiled. Problem solved.

Joyce drove into her office building’s underground garage. The lot was almost completely empty. She shivered as she walked toward the elevator. Picked up her pace. Slid her car key between her index and middle fingers, the way her daughter had taught her after taking a self-defense course at college. Any guy jumps you, Mom, go for his eyes.