There are stories of the ghost who limps, or weeps, or runs into the clothing shop on Sunday mornings.
They say she is searching for her husband’s mistress. They say she walked in on a Sunday Morning, snapped her umbrella shut behind the door, and riffled through the clothing racks for a suit; a birthday present for her husband. They say The Other Woman was by the checkout queue when Sunday Morning Woman spotted her: skin like polished glass, a perfume that made nostrils twitch. At once she knew The Other Woman was her husband’s mistress: she’d seen her in his office selfies. “Project manager,” he’d called her. She had on black leggings and the white-blue shirt Sunday Morning Woman had bought her husband on his last birthday. It was the shirt, not the nostril-twitching perfume – same he’d got his wife for Christmas – that gave the mistress away.
They say the mistress had snatched her card and was driving off as Sunday Morning Woman flew out the door and ran after her. It was quick: one moment she was waving her arms, yelling, “Hello, hold on!” and the next she was a chunk of shattered flesh on the ground. They say the doorman clasped his hands over his head. The woman hawking oranges cried, “Jésù ó, Jésù.” And the mistress opened her door then slammed it shut. They say she recognized her victim, that’s why she retracted and sped off.
Did she recognize her lover’s wife? We don’t know, we are not her.
Now here Sunday Morning Woman is, peering about the shop, looking for her husband’s mistress. They say she has questions: “Does he fling his socks across your living room on the days he comes to you, or does he tuck them into his shoes?” “Is he leaving me?”
They say all she wants is answers.
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But others say Sunday Morning Woman was a shopper who lost her family heirloom. Her grandmother bought the expensive necklace when women could be nothing and have nothing. Yet she became Something and had many Somethings and passed all of her Somethings to each of the women who came after her. They say Sunday Morning Woman was pulling a blouse over her head when the price tag flew off and along with it the diamond necklace. They say she scratched the carpets and patted the walls day and night for her grandmother’s Something until her hair smelled like rodents and her period bled red-black into her underwear and she ran mad and she became thin as air and then stopped taking in air.
Did her underwear bleed red-black in the changing room? We don’t know, we are not her vagina. Now here she is, poking holes into the chair. They say all she wants is her grandmother’s Something.
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Others say Sunday Morning Woman was a Good Wife throwing her husband a promotion party. He bought her jewelry in the evenings and punched her in the mornings and on that party day, he flung his wallet in her face so she’d get a dress for his party. But the wallet fell from her bag amidst the bubbling glee of riffling through shiny clothes. They say he slammed her head against the wall when she returned without the wallet which housed his entire life.
Did the wallet house his entire life? We don’t know, but he vowed she was his entire life while she smiled and teared up and wiped her swollen eye from behind her wedding veil. They say he beat her until he couldn’t beat her anymore. Now here she is, flicking around the shop. They say all she wants is her husband’s life.
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But many say that Sunday Morning Woman was assaulted and smothered to death in the clothing shop’s changing room.
Before she was assaulted and smothered to death, they say, she was a secretary at a glassy conglomerate. Her ?gá palmed her buttocks when she bent to pick a file he’d dropped to the floor, so she stormed to HR because it was the 21st century and the world had installed trumpets in women’s throats. But maybe not so loud. She signed an NDA and boxed her things and walked out the building.
They say she slapped her ?gá across his face after he palmed her bum. Did she slap him? We don’t know, we are not her ?gá.
They say after Sunday Morning Woman was fired, she tucked herself in bed. She emptied Vodka bottles for breakfast and vomited in the toilet at night and her mother told her over the phone, “It’s okay, everything will be okay,” and her friend said, “Take it to Twitter,” and her father said, “What would Jesus do?” Jesus would let it go.
Would Jesus let it go? We don’t know, we are not Jesus.
They say one day when Sunday Morning Woman had started to feel better, she strapped on her sandals and strolled to the clothing shop for a dress; it was for an interview the following day.
They say she met This Man with a dazzling smile at the shop and he asked for her number, and what the hell, she gave it to him.
They say he played Fun Funny Audience while she changed into dresses and twirled and he “oohed” and “ahhed”. They say they had an instant connection and it was like they’d known each other for years. They say he kissed her in the changing room.
She let him kiss her because she wanted to forget her ?gá and forget everything, because This Man made her feel light, like a butterfly, like paper – and she wanted to feel light. But when he pulled her closer and grabbed her bum, she placed her hands flat against his chest and said, “Whoa, this man, slow down.”
But This Man did not slow down. He held her wrists and yanked at her panties and she yelled and whimpered, and soon a knock came on the door – another sales attendant to check in about the muffled sounds coming from behind the door. They say he opened the door a slice and flashed a charming grin and assured the attendant all was well and she believed him. They say This Man then balled up Sunday Morning Woman’s new dress she’d yet to try out, pressed it down over her nose until she stopped wriggling and her eyes went blank. Then he folded her into a wardrobe at the back of the room and when his shift was over, into the boot of his car. They say he was a sales attendant too.
Now here is Sunday Morning Woman, browsing through the shop. They say all she wants is her dress.
