What is it about being a woman in a hardware store? I'm as confident as you please in almost any venue, I'm used to traveling alone on business, eating alone, I can even fix a flat. But when I step into a hardware store, I always feel like I'm on the other side of a mysterious understanding, forever at a disadvantage due to my inability to grasp the precise difference between a lug nut and a castle nut or why the $175 power drill is better than the one for $29.99.
I sigh and pull open the door. The kitschy wind chimes tinkle as I walk inside. Two men in aprons bearing the name of the store in block letters watch me enter, each with arms crossed casually and a hip perched on the checkout counter. I sense their instinctive assessment of me as I walk in. One of them is young, tattooed, with a large black spool earring in one ear. He's slim, dressed in black under his red apron. The other one is older; he's also slim but has broader shoulders, lean muscles that make his white polo-style shirt cling in places. A nicely trimmed beard.
God, why am I looking at them anyway? Probably because they're also looking at me. Trying to figure out whether I'm there to pick up fall bulbs or a new float to fix my toilet that keeps running. I don't like attracting attention; I can feel a bit of a blush warming my cheeks as I keep my feet moving past them, into the store. I've come straight from work. The younger one takes a quick look at my chest, then despite a momentary flare of interest, looks back to the young cashier he was flirting with before I entered. The older one seems to be giving me the full assessment, not stopping until he's swept me head to toe. Lingering for a moment on my slim calves and cute navy sandals, he finally lifts his eyes and regards me with a sharp but interested gaze. I find myself holding my breath, just for a brief moment.
All of this happens in a flash, just like so many fleeting encounters during the day. I'm almost past them when I feel that the older one has shifted onto his feet. His voice sounds laconic but...is there a hidden smile in it?
"Anything we can help you find, ma'am?" He's polite, has a slight Southern accent. I turn my head but keep my body headed further into the store.
"No...thank you. I'm just looking for a few items," I reply quickly. I'm not sure if I'm happy or disappointed when I see, out of the corner of my eye, that he's settled back against the counter.
Having entered the main room of the small, in-town store, I'm now assaulted by the same confusion I face every time I've been there. Six aisles lead off at right angles from the spacious main aisle separating the store from the check-out. Each one is filled with arcane items and stretches out to the back of the store, getting progressively more crowded with objects and more dimly lit. I know that in the back are the larger items -- some pre-cut lumber, piping -- but also things like individual nails and screws and spools of rope and chain. Things that need to be measured, counted.
Hoping my progress isn't being monitored by the employees at the front, I make my way down one of the aisles. It appears to hold mainly plumbing-related things. Toilet seats in basic white and shocking colors vie for space with pipe cutters and plumbers' putty. I pause midway down the aisle as if considering a basin wrench, while I look around to see whether anyone is paying attention to me. At this hour, the store isn't crowded. On a Tuesday evening, the real workmen have called it a day, and the do-it-yourselfers haven't yet started thinking about next weekend's projects.
I sidle slowly to the back of the aisle, then move toward the spools of rope. My attention is momentarily distracted by the nearby spools wrapped with various types of gleaming chains. I run my finger over one, feeling a delicious little shiver. Looking around me and seeing no one, I find the end of the chain and pull a short length of it out, then gently wrap it around my wrist. The weight of it, the hard, unyielding surface, make my heart do funny things in my chest, especially when I look down and see how it glints, wrapped around my delicate wrist. There's a quiet clank as I move my hand here and there in the light, lost in the moment.
Then I hear a voice immediately behind me and I jump, my breath coming out in a startled gasp. It's the employee who asked me if I needed help. When I whip around to face him, feeling as guilty as if I'd stuffed my pockets with screws, I forget that the chain is still wrapped around my wrist. It catches me up with a sharp, painful tug and I make an involuntary sound.
He takes a step closer, right next to me, and his large hand reaches out to hold my wrist still. "Careful, ma'am," he says, using his other hand to untangle the chain and pull it away. "You could hurt yourself, playing with those." His warm, capable-looking hand stays on my wrist, his thumb gently rubbing the place where the chain left a red mark. His voice has a strange effect on me. He's not lecturing me, not exactly. There's a sense of command behind his calm words that gives me a nervous flutter.
He's still holding my wrist, and there's a moment of indecision. I look up into his face and see something that immediately makes me look away, down at my arm. I give a little pull, trying to free it, and my small motion seems to confirm something to him.
"Your skin looks very delicate," he says in that same voice. "Let me take you in the back, run some cold water over it so it doesn't swell."
'There's no need. Really, I'm fine," I say, feeling flustered. But he pays no attention, shepherding me along in front of him like a Border collie with a nervous lamb. I have a sudden, random fear that he's going to take me into some secret chamber in the back and do...what? Chain me up? I realize I need to get hold of myself. Playing with that chain was a bad idea, in more ways than one.
He doesn't do anything except guide me over to a utility sink. He twists the knob and cool water begins to flow. He positions my wrist under it, then says, "Stay there. Keep it under the water. I'll be right back."
I don't move. Something in his voice makes me want to do exactly as he says. Even if this isn't what I think it is. Even if he doesn't notice, I'm already half-lost in my own world. But I think he does notice. When he returns, he stands even closer to me than before. Right behind me, invading my personal space. He reaches around and turns off the water, then dries my arm carefully with a paper towel before applying some cream to it and rubbing it in. All of this is done efficiently, yet with care. I still haven't moved except for the way he's moved me, angling and turning my arm.
At last, he's done. "There. That should help. Wouldn't want any customers to sue the store for negligence. You okay now?"
I realize he's waiting for my response. "Th-thank you, I'm fine," I stammer. 'You've been more than helpful. I wouldn't dream of making a complaint."
I turn slowly, but he doesn't back up. He's uncomfortably close. We stand face-to-face, a brush away from touching. He clears his throat. "So, were you looking to buy some chain for a project?"
I give an idiotic laugh. "Oh! No, I was just thinking about maybe putting in a porch swing. You know, in the spring...."
He nods and lets it pass, but there's a half smile. "Something else you wanted, then?" he says in a teasing tone.
I'm too rattled by his solid physical presence to have any hope of teasing back. There's something about him. Something that reminds me of the men in all those erotic stories I'd read and hankered after. But that's crazy, isn't it? My imagination is running away with me.
