The First Days of Summer

The first time I stepped into Lenora Schneider’s shop as more than just a customer, the sun was merciless outside. Sweat clung to my shirt, and the moment the air conditioner brushed across my face, I felt like I had stepped into another world.

Lenora was already there, perched on her high stool near the counter, legs crossed, heel dangling like a metronome ticking down to something inevitable. She looked up from her phone, her lips curling into a smile that felt too practiced to be casual, but too warm to be fake.

“You must be the new helper,” she said. Her voice was low, smooth, with the faint rasp of someone who’d been laughing just before I arrived. “Come on in, You. We’ll keep it simple today—folding, hanging, putting things back where customers mess them up.”

I nodded, awkward and stiff. She smelled faintly of perfume—something floral but with an edge of spice—and it made the air feel thicker than it should.

Heat and Habit

Day after day, the shop became routine. I’d come down after class, slip behind the counter, and start sorting through endless racks of skirts, blouses, and dresses. The place wasn’t busy; it never had more than two or three customers at a time. Most of the hours, it was just me, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and Lenora.

She liked to sit by the fitting-room mirror, stretching out in those glossy stockings that caught the light like water. Sometimes she’d tap her heels against the tile in a slow rhythm, sometimes she’d bend forward to adjust the strap of her shoe, her dress shifting just enough to reveal more thigh than necessary. I told myself I wasn’t staring, but my body always betrayed me—lingering too long, fumbling with hangers.

Lenora noticed. Of course she noticed. She’d toss out lines like, “Careful, You. If you wrinkle that dress, I’ll have to iron it again. Don’t want me bending over the board too long, do you?” Her laughter always followed, silky and sharp.

I’d mumble something dumb—“Yeah, sorry, won’t happen again”—while my ears burned red. She thrived on it, this little game.

The Long Afternoon

One sweltering Thursday, the shop was dead quiet. The world outside shimmered with heat, and inside, the air conditioning struggled to keep up. Lenora wore a pale cream dress, the fabric hugging her figure like it had been made for her alone.

I was crouched by the bottom shelf, stacking folded shirts, when her voice floated down.

“You work too hard,” she teased. “Relax a little. You’re in a clothing store, not the army.”

I glanced up, and she was leaning against the counter, sipping iced tea through a straw. Her lipstick left faint marks on the plastic cup. One hand rested on her hip, and her heel swung lazily back and forth.

“Gotta earn my pay,” I muttered.

“Hmm. Such a good boy.” She smiled, and I felt my pulse stutter.

The air felt heavier, pressing down on both of us. She set the cup aside and walked over, her heels clicking like punctuation. She stood close—too close—her perfume cutting through the cold air.

“Tell me,” she said, tilting her head, “do you like working here? With me?”

My throat went dry. “Y-yeah. Of course.”

Her smile deepened. “Good. I like having you here. You make the hours go faster.” Her hand brushed a hanger on the rack beside me, but her arm lingered, her sleeve brushing against mine. It was nothing—just fabric against fabric—but it lit me up from inside, like touching a live wire.

The Closing Hour

Evenings were the hardest. When the shutters came down, when the shop turned from public space to private cocoon, every glance and every movement carried a weight.

That night, I was counting the register when I caught her reflection in the glass door—Lenora bent slightly as she slipped off one heel, rubbing her foot with a quiet sigh. Then the other heel clattered softly against the tile. She padded barefoot across the store, her stockings shimmering under the faint ceiling lights.

“You look exhausted,” she murmured, coming around the counter.

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice betrayed the tremor inside me.

She leaned on the counter with both elbows, her neckline dipping just enough to make me forget the numbers I was tallying. Her eyes locked onto mine, playful but edged with something heavier.

“Summer’s only starting,” she whispered. “We’ve got a long season ahead, You. Think you can handle it?”

Her words weren’t innocent. Neither was the way her hand rested, palm flat, only inches from mine on the countertop.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence between us said more than any words could. Her smile widened, slow and dangerous, as though she knew exactly what I was thinking—and exactly how much further this dance could go, if only I dared.

When I finally stepped out into the hot night, the memory of her stockings, her perfume, and her half-spoken promises clung to me like the heat itself.

Summer had only just begun.