The department store felt too large for the three of you.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale, almost sickly glow across polished tile floors. It was late afternoon in Michigan, 1987—quiet enough that the perfume section seemed detached from the rest of the world. Rows of glass bottles shimmered under display lamps, their colors faintly tinted like diluted jewels.

Sharon stood closest to the mirror, her short, curly brunette hair framing her face as she leaned in, studying herself with a distant sort of focus. Her turtleneck—soft beige—hugged her neck in a way that made her look composed, almost too composed. She dabbed a small amount of perfume onto her wrist, then raised it slowly to her nose.

Janice lingered beside her, taller, slimmer, her long dark hair falling nearly black under the artificial lighting. Her long-sleeved blouse was a deep blue, slightly wrinkled at the cuffs. She sprayed a tester strip, waving it through the air with a casual flick of her wrist.

The air thickened with layered scents—powdery florals, sharp citrus, something musky beneath it all.

You stood just behind them, near the edge of the display. Not touching anything. Not moving much at all.

Waiting.

Sharon’s eyes flicked toward the mirror again—but this time, they didn’t settle on herself. They shifted slightly, catching your reflection. She paused.

Her hand lowered slowly.

“…Are you alright?” she asked, her voice soft, but careful. There was something measured in it, like she was testing the weight of each word before letting it go. Her body angled just slightly toward you, not fully turning—like she didn’t want to make it obvious she was concerned.

Before anything could settle in that moment, Janice gave a small shrug, already reaching for another bottle.

“They’re fine,” she said lightly, almost dismissive. “Just waiting. Aren’t you?”

She didn’t look back when she said it. Instead, she sprayed another scent into the air between them, letting it drift. “This one’s better,” she added, as if the conversation had already ended.

Sharon hesitated.

For a second, it seemed like she might press further—but then she exhaled, faintly, and turned back to the mirror. “Maybe,” she murmured, lifting her wrist again. “It’s… softer.”

The tension that had briefly surfaced dissolved just as quickly.

Janice leaned in closer beside her, their shoulders nearly touching as they compared scents, their voices lowering into a calm, almost sing-song rhythm—comments blending into each other, indistinct but oddly synchronized.

Behind them, the store stretched out in long, empty aisles.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint hum of lights—and something else, harder to place. A feeling, more than a sound.

But whatever had lingered before… it felt distant now.

Gone, for the moment.

And so they continued—testing perfumes, calm and unbothered—while you remained just behind them, still waiting as the air grew heavier with sweetness.