Mean Girls Missing

18

May 9

1:15 pm

Monica

Shopping was a chore.

I despised shopping.

Don't even get me started on shopping sprees and designer brands. They were the absolute worst.

If I could do all of my shopping on my computer, I would. That way I wouldn't have to put on a brave face when I encountered mall crowds or waited in long lines at Walmart. Not everything was available online which is why I found myself at the local mall.

Well, kind of local. It was about thirty-five minutes about from the university. If I was still living with my parents, it would've only taken about three or four minutes to drive. I procrastinated the errands for as long as I could. Sitting in the cold breeze of AC, this was the calm before the storm.

I tucked my wallet into my purse and swung it over my shoulder. I tossed my car keys in there after I double checked that my car doors were locked and I wasn't leaving my keys on the seat. I really didn't want to have to call the police to open my car for me again. It was getting embarrassing. I was on a first name basis with some of these officers because of my forgetfulness.

The pharmacy was towards the back of the center. I passed by groups of people to reach the gruff, broad shouldered gray-haired technician. Her red-framed glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose. Her smoky eye shadow was uneven on her two lids. Unfortunately, it was a noticeable difference with one eye having twice as much color than the other. She looked like a clown that forgot to finish her makeup.

I paid for my birth control after a boring conversation with the woman. She ran down the list of instructions for how to properly take birth control pills and that I should still use condoms if I'm sexually active.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that she sees me every month. Or that I'm smart enough to make men I'm involved with use condoms without being told by bossy pharmacy techs. I simply slid my debit card, signed the receipt, and went about my day.

Before leaving the mall, I saw the golden Louis Vuitton sign glowing. As if it was whispering to me, begging me to enter.

I couldn't afford anything in Louis Vuitton. Probably not even a pair of socks. Besides, what was the point of spending four hundred dollars on one item when you could pay your rent, get groceries, and some thrift store clothes with the same amount of money? I wouldn't ever understand the hype with luxurious designers. Mom had taught me from a young age that money didn't mean everything. It was only as useful as the person spending it. So I knew how to be wise with my cash.

But hey, what was the problem with browsing? Maybe it could inspire me to sew something similar.

I stepped inside the store. The tiles were sleek black. No traces of footprints. Each table was perfectly folded. The racks were assembled effortlessly. Everything looked so clean. Impressive. It was beautiful in here. The lightbulbs must've been fancy, too, because I'd never seen one shine so bright. Some French song was playing over the radio.

Everything about this store screamed wealthy. I was the exact opposite. The sales associates didn't have to know I wouldn't make a purchase. I just wanted to see what life was like for rich folk who could wipe their ass with dollar bills.

There was an entire section of the store dedicated to purses, clutches, handbags, you name it. I admired a tan crossbody bag with a golden chain. Until I flipped the price tag over, saw that it was nearly two thousand dollars, and decided it looked better on the shelf.