Sunday
Aislen had the clear impression that she was the most unusual customer that the hardware store had seen, from the stares of the check-out clerks as she entered, and the hovering of the clean-cut, slightly nerdy clerk at the end of the aisle who seemed to not realize that he was stacking, unstacking, and then restacking the same packages to the shelf, his eyes on her.
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and heaved a sigh. “I’m looking for something to tie my lover to the bed,” she told him. “I like my men helpless and begging. You look like someone who shares my kinks. Do you have any recommendations?”
He blushed and left in a hurry. She shrugged. “I guess not.”
She found a shovel and brought it, and a collection of native plants, over to the cash register.
The woman sca
