Jennifer was in the car behind me, and I watched her in my rear view mirror. She was a sales person and had a fizzing feminine laugh which she readily used while grabbing your arm. Her hair was whipped cream blond, her eyes wide, and her makeup made bold expressions of her face. She was always a little over dressed, the stiffness of her suits countermanding the looseness of her demeanor. Jennifer was supremely personable, her heels clicked happily like fingers snapping the beat to an uptempo song.
Jennifer spent lots of time on the road, in hotel rooms and rented cars. When she got home she could smell sanitizer in her clothes and on her hands. She shared an apartment with her brother, a web designer who had come to Kansas City from their native Florida where the rest of their family still lived. She was happy to have a room mate so she could come home to a lived in space, warm with body heat and cooking smells. Without him she would have to give up her dog, a golden retriever named Annie, who she always gave a shaggy hug to as soon as she came in the door, no matter the time of day or night, despite the hair it left on her jackets.
I saw her mouth turn down below tired eyes. At stop lights she looked dreamily into the sky. She was 36 and turned down sweets, was devoted to the gym for the consequences she feared as a woman in sales slipping away from youth and into something else. She thought she'd have a husband and a child by now, but she spent so much time on the road it was hard. Every week she was in a new place, sunnily selling things to strangers, leaving town without getting to know them. The better she did the more calls they sent her on, she wasn't really sure what she was working for anymore. Jennifer's face was gray and drained behind the smoky glass and I wondered how it looked in the empty hotel room, or the dark apartment before her dog came bounding to lick her face. She opened her window and a screen of light dawned on her face, the yellow hair took color again and she smiled a winning smile.
Jennifer spent lots of time on the road, in hotel rooms and rented cars. When she got home she could smell sanitizer in her clothes and on her hands. She shared an apartment with her brother, a web designer who had come to Kansas City from their native Florida where the rest of their family still lived. She was happy to have a room mate so she could come home to a lived in space, warm with body heat and cooking smells. Without him she would have to give up her dog, a golden retriever named Annie, who she always gave a shaggy hug to as soon as she came in the door, no matter the time of day or night, despite the hair it left on her jackets.
I saw her mouth turn down below tired eyes. At stop lights she looked dreamily into the sky. She was 36 and turned down sweets, was devoted to the gym for the consequences she feared as a woman in sales slipping away from youth and into something else. She thought she'd have a husband and a child by now, but she spent so much time on the road it was hard. Every week she was in a new place, sunnily selling things to strangers, leaving town without getting to know them. The better she did the more calls they sent her on, she wasn't really sure what she was working for anymore. Jennifer's face was gray and drained behind the smoky glass and I wondered how it looked in the empty hotel room, or the dark apartment before her dog came bounding to lick her face. She opened her window and a screen of light dawned on her face, the yellow hair took color again and she smiled a winning smile.
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