"When I was sixteen, I started shoplifting," she told him as they lay interwoven on her bed. When she told him her post-sex tales, he never said a word unless she asked him a question. He didn't even move. He just lie there like a still pool of clear water.
"Did you ever steal anything," she asked.
"A pack of gum once."
"It's thrilling. Something that's hard to stop. It's the risk of being caught, hauled out in hand cuffs by the police that makes it so addictive. I hated the idea of being shamed like that publicly."
He stared at the textured acoustic ceiling.
"I imagine some people find the most exhilarating part walking out of the store. But I always felt most excited just before I slipped whatever I planned to steal into my pocket or bag or whatever. This act of concealment was the event horizon. I always had to work up the courage for that, but once I had it safely tucked away, I felt that my fate was sealed. Whether or not I got caught was no longer in my hands and my anxiety would ebb away."
--
The first time she shoplifted was when she was high school. There was a boy in her class who she felt that she loved and she wanted to get him a present. He was the traditional jock archetype, muscular, popular, charismatic. She was drawn to him with intense fascination but the interest wasn't returned. He never even spoke to her. So she devised a plan to bring him an anonymous present.
She skipped her classed one day and went to the local department store. She hadn't done any research for how someone gets away with shoplifting, but she was obviously a clever girl and make a quick assessment of the situation. There was no electronic security system, just watchful clerks and video cameras.
Since it was the middle of the day, the shoppers were mostly old people quietly pushing carts from aisle to aisle. She wandered through the aisles, looking for the perfect gift. It was almost overwhelming, the array of wares that she had to choose from. Of course there were the obvious constraints of size and shape, but even this subset was dazzlingly diverse.
As she snaked her way around, row after row, she finally found what she thought would make the perfect gift. A small bottle of cologne. There were many expensive fragrances locked away behind the glass looking case, but even if she had the key, she would have chosen the same one. A small textured bottle branded with the face of a recently popular rapper.
As an older woman rolled past, her wheels squeaking behind a shelf of artisanal soaps, she secretly squirted the wet mist onto her wrist and inhaled, trying to capture each particle. Scent is an intimate sense, and if she could get him to wear this scent, then she felt as if she could own a tiny piece of him, just for herself. No matter how much he ignored or avoided her, she would know how he smelled, as if she were by his side.
She took the bottle and cupped it in her hand as she rounded the corner of the aisle, making sure to swivel it away from any would be wandering eyes. Her heart was racing. The heft of the bottle felt white hot as she lifted it to stash it in the pocket of her sweatshirt. The gently fall of the bottle in the soft furlike lining made her feel high. She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and did a few more laps around the store, before finally making her exit.
The next day at school she had it wrapped and put it next to his locker before class began. She waited for him to arrive, hovering anxiously near the entrance of the school. When he finally came, she was peaking at him from behind a locker, but the package had been kicked over. The glass had shattered and the overwhelming pungency from the cheap bottle of cologne had shrouded the locker bank in a foul, aseptic scent. She started crying quiet tears as he covered his face with his shirt and kicked at the broken glass.
"Did you ever steal anything," she asked.
"A pack of gum once."
"It's thrilling. Something that's hard to stop. It's the risk of being caught, hauled out in hand cuffs by the police that makes it so addictive. I hated the idea of being shamed like that publicly."
He stared at the textured acoustic ceiling.
"I imagine some people find the most exhilarating part walking out of the store. But I always felt most excited just before I slipped whatever I planned to steal into my pocket or bag or whatever. This act of concealment was the event horizon. I always had to work up the courage for that, but once I had it safely tucked away, I felt that my fate was sealed. Whether or not I got caught was no longer in my hands and my anxiety would ebb away."
--
The first time she shoplifted was when she was high school. There was a boy in her class who she felt that she loved and she wanted to get him a present. He was the traditional jock archetype, muscular, popular, charismatic. She was drawn to him with intense fascination but the interest wasn't returned. He never even spoke to her. So she devised a plan to bring him an anonymous present.
She skipped her classed one day and went to the local department store. She hadn't done any research for how someone gets away with shoplifting, but she was obviously a clever girl and make a quick assessment of the situation. There was no electronic security system, just watchful clerks and video cameras.
Since it was the middle of the day, the shoppers were mostly old people quietly pushing carts from aisle to aisle. She wandered through the aisles, looking for the perfect gift. It was almost overwhelming, the array of wares that she had to choose from. Of course there were the obvious constraints of size and shape, but even this subset was dazzlingly diverse.
As she snaked her way around, row after row, she finally found what she thought would make the perfect gift. A small bottle of cologne. There were many expensive fragrances locked away behind the glass looking case, but even if she had the key, she would have chosen the same one. A small textured bottle branded with the face of a recently popular rapper.
As an older woman rolled past, her wheels squeaking behind a shelf of artisanal soaps, she secretly squirted the wet mist onto her wrist and inhaled, trying to capture each particle. Scent is an intimate sense, and if she could get him to wear this scent, then she felt as if she could own a tiny piece of him, just for herself. No matter how much he ignored or avoided her, she would know how he smelled, as if she were by his side.
She took the bottle and cupped it in her hand as she rounded the corner of the aisle, making sure to swivel it away from any would be wandering eyes. Her heart was racing. The heft of the bottle felt white hot as she lifted it to stash it in the pocket of her sweatshirt. The gently fall of the bottle in the soft furlike lining made her feel high. She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and did a few more laps around the store, before finally making her exit.
The next day at school she had it wrapped and put it next to his locker before class began. She waited for him to arrive, hovering anxiously near the entrance of the school. When he finally came, she was peaking at him from behind a locker, but the package had been kicked over. The glass had shattered and the overwhelming pungency from the cheap bottle of cologne had shrouded the locker bank in a foul, aseptic scent. She started crying quiet tears as he covered his face with his shirt and kicked at the broken glass.
