The old man showed me a back room, where there was a laundry basket of things left behind by other women. Sequined bras. A tube of red lipstick. A hairbrush. An old bottle of Giorgio that had been refilled with water to try and soak up leftover scent. Four-inch red heels, size nine. I flipped my hair upside down and teased it till it piled across my shoulders and down my back in a wild swirl. I took the lipstick and smeared it across my mouth. Rubbed a bit between my fingers and across my cheekbones. I stood in front of the mirror and slid my size-seven feet into those heels. Stuffed tissue into the toes to try and make them fit. Then I knotted my T-shirt in the front, the way Momma always did. So my belly showed as smooth and flat as a high-summer bacca leaf. “Boys,” the old man called out, as he helped me onto the counter. “I give you Angel.” Just as I chose not to go to the back corners with farm-hands, I chose to let them stand me up on a biscuit counter.
