A Body to die for

weekends.
    A kid, maybe nineteen, in a blue apron with the store logo slapped across his chest approached us when we entered the store. He said, “Hello! I’m Branford.” He smiled, revealing shiny new braces with rubber bands. I grimaced. Branford kept on grinning despite his metal mouth. He was perkier than my breasts. Not an easy trick.
    “Cutlery,” I said, hoping he’d just point.
    “Kitchen utensils are on the main floor. But you’ll have to walk through living room and office furniture studios to get there.” A nice technique. In the event that I was pining for, say, a coffee table or a new desk, I couldn’t help but pass by.
    “Do you deliver?” I asked Branford.
    He was staring at Jack, who grew uncomfortable with the attention. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Bedroom furniture is on the second floor.”
    Jack said thanks to the kid and turned to go. Branford frowned. “Pardon me, sir. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Jack shook his head. A crackling fuse went off behind Branford’s eyes. “Yes!” he almost screamed. “You’re Little Jackie Watson. I can’t believe this. You’re my idol! I’ve had posters of you on my walls for years.” He paused, smiling radiantly. “I’ve spent hours fantasizing about meeting you. And to see you now,” Branford said, beaming. “Dressed like this. It’s like a dream come true.”
    “A wet one,” I whispered to Jack.
    “That’s very nice,” Jack said to Branford. He put his arm around my shoulder and steered me away. Our pace made me glow. I had forgotten that Jack really was a celebrity. He said, “That kid was trying to pick me up.”
    “Were you tempted?” I asked.
    “Of course not!” he cried. “He thinks I’m gay because of these stupid clothes. I knew this would happen.”
    I grabbed an oversize cart like everyone else, and we wheeled it inexpertly along the cart track painted on the floor. There was a wide selection of wood furniture—the kind I like. Jack seemed impatient with my stop-and-go search for a coffee table. At one Point, he hid behind a big red leather couch. I said, ‘It’s not that bad.”
    “Have you ever known the pressures of celebrity?”
    “So you’ll be outed in Elizabeth, New Jersey. That is a sorry fate.” I was heavy with the irony.
    Jack fumed. His anger rose from his head in waves. “Why don’t you just shut up?” It occurred to me that the day in jail might have unhinged desperate Jack. He skulked off down the path marked on the floor with two bright yellow lines. I had to push the cart at a good clip to catch him.
    But a vision in oak stopped me and my cart dead in the track. It had short lathed legs and a thick hunter-green stained top. I whipped out my mental tape measure and estimated that it would fit quite nicely in my living room. The price tag read two hundred dollars. Dirt. I sat on the table. I lay down on it. It was big enough for our purposes. I closed my eyes to imagine it. I opened them to see a small gathering of people looking down at me. Branford broke through the crowd.
    “Ma’am,” he started. “Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?”
    Only months ago, I was generally called Miss. “I tripped over this table and hurt myself,” I tried for a discount. “I hope I won’t have to sue the store for damages.”
    Branford’s lips tensed. “Where exactly does it hurt, ma’am?” he asked.
    “My ankle,” I whined, lifting it up for his inspection. The crowd started to disperse. Good, I thought. Better to work on Branford alone.
    “It looks okay,” he said uncertainly.
    Jack came sprinting toward us, leaping over tables and shopping carts like a blond panther. He was a stunner in motion. Branford noticed, too. He dropped my ankle with a thud.
    Jack stopped on a dime. He said, “Wanda, you’ve got to come quick.”
    “What?” I asked, seeing the excitement in his eyes.
    “Just come on.” Jack snagged my wrist and pulled me to my feet. I tried to pretend my ankle was tender, but it was no use. We rushed up the ramp to the next level. Jack told me to shush, and led me beyond stacks of plastic colanders and salad bowls to the cutlery section.
    We were safely hidden behind boxes of two-hundred-piece starter sets before I asked, “What’s all the excitement? Forks on sale?”
    “Look.” Jack pointed, careful not to let his finger protrude farther than the boxes of lobster steaming pans. I followed his finger. Two women were talking at a counter. One woman’s back was