I used to work in a clothes shop. It sold overpriced shirts and the sizing didn’t go above a UK 14 for women. I used to resent the pretence you had to put on for every customer. The mantra went: the nicer you were the more you sold. You still had to be nice even if a purple-faced customer told you between clenched teeth that it was unacceptable that you’d run out of gift cards. Or when you’re angrily told that “it’s the most embarrassing that’s ever happened to me” when they set the security alarm off because you accidently left a tag on one of their purchases. For all the masks that were worn upstairs however, there was a rawness and a realness that happened in the basement stockroom. Amid the graffiti-strewn walls, the bi-monthly infestation of clothes moths and the damp air was where Jesus hung out in conversations, questions and tears.
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