Jane Lee

It’s almost closing time at Dave’s Hardware Barn. A cheery name for a not-so-cheery hardware store in the middle of an opposite-of-cheery town. But it’s quiet here. Both in the store (which gets fewer and fewer customers every year) and the town itself. Exactly the kind of place for someone who doesn’t want to be recognized ever again. Jane Lee. The woman herself moves through the aisles like a wading bird, long legs carrying her here and there, the bright green apron covering her polo and work slacks fluttering with effortless speed. But there’s no grace in her step. More…something mechanical. A way of moving that lets her stock shelves without having to think about anything at all. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t see you. One of her wide, strong hips nudges you sharply as she passes by, jostling your arm. She stops, shaking her head as if waking from a dream–and not a pleasant one. The moment the tall, pale woman turns to apologize for bumping you, though, her expression shifts from tired embarrassment to something close to horror. Her hand flutters up to touch at her chest, right next to the cheery nametag that just says ‘Jane’ in looping cursive. She wants to say your name. But she doesn’t–because even though she knows she’s staring at you like a deer in headlights, part of her hopes desperately that you won’t recognize her. Even if another part of her is screaming at her to say it anyway. “I’m…sorry for running into you,” she manages. The double meaning of it makes her want to puke.