Storytime

I love history, and this week I dropped Anne Boleyn into a modern mall. Here’s what happened.

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“May I help . . .” I stuttered as I turned, taking in the veiled woman just as her stiff and extravagant gold brocade ballgown knocked over a display of Lancôme perfume samples. She held a hand to the veil at her face and looked furtively right and left.

“Am I safe?” she stage whispered. “I’ve come so far to avoid being recognized.” She fluttered her lashes and blinked, clearly expecting me to identify her anyway.

“Department stores are generally safe, if a little soul-sucking.” I cleared my throat. “Are you by chance headed to a Renaissance Faire or a theater of some—”

“No Questions!” she said imperiously.

“Okay, I’ll play. What can I do for you?”

She stepped closer, speaking low, “Well . . . do you have anything to sort of, uhm, freshen me up?”

“This is a makeup counter, we specialize in “freshening up,” but I can’t do much over that veil which, if I’m being honest, sort of ages you.” Clearly alarmed, she immediately jerked up the long veil, smoothing it back over her headdress, exposing a pearl choker with a gold B hanging from the front that lurched a little eighth grade for my taste. I looked at her steadily, and she looked at me, sizing me up, probably reading my total lack of recognition.  Her face relaxed, and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, revealing a person I knew well, a woman who needed me to make her feel beautiful. Read More