To the mall - late evening by bus (Skirt & tank-top looks best)

I got ready the way I always do when I want to feel good about myself. High-waisted skinny jeans that hug my thighs and make my ass look round and full—my favorite pair. A plain white tank top, snug enough to show the outline of my bra but not trashy. Clean white sneakers. A little black backpack slung over one shoulder for whatever I ended up buying.

I stood in front of the mirror and quickly wove my hair into two neat pigtails. I’ve been wearing them like this since I first got serious about doing hair—makes me feel cute, a little playful, like I’m still that girl who could talk anyone into a blowout or some highlights. I gave myself a quick once-over, tugged the jeans up a bit higher, and headed out to catch the bus into the city.

The mall was busy but not crazy. I drifted through a few stores, picking up small things—a cute pair of black pumps with a slim heel that would make my legs look endless, and a set of lingerie I knew my husband would lose his mind over. Black lace, strappy, the kind that ties at the sides so he could undo it with his teeth if he wanted. Everything went straight into the backpack. I was already smiling, imagining his face when I walked out of the bathroom later wearing it.

One last stop before I headed home.

There was this tobacco shop I’d passed a couple of times before. My husband sometimes likes a good cigar on the back porch when the weather’s nice, and I thought it would be sweet to surprise him with something fancy. The store was tucked all the way at the end of the lower level, down a dim hallway, last door on the left. The sign was old and half-faded. The windows were dark, almost blacked out. It looked… off. Like it belonged in a different decade. But I figured, what’s the harm? I’d be in and out.

I pushed the door open and immediately got hit with the smell—tobacco, yes, but also something sweeter and sour at the same time, like spilled whiskey and old incense. The air was thick, hazy with smoke even though I didn’t see anyone actively smoking. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Behind the scratched-up glass counter stood this big, older guy—probably late fifties, heavy gut hanging over his belt, greasy hair combed back. The second I stepped inside, his eyes locked on me. Not on my face. Lower.

I felt it like a spotlight: his stare sliding over my hips, lingering on the way the denim stretched tight across my ass.

“Hey there, tight-jeans,” he drawled, voice rough like he smoked three packs a day. “You wanna buy somethin’ or you just lost?”

My stomach did a quick flip, but I also felt this tiny rush of pride. Of course he was looking. Men always look. I’ve got the kind of curves that make jeans do most of the talking.

I flashed a small, shy smile. “Hi… good evening, sir. I’m just looking around.”

He snorted. “We’re closin’ in fifteen. Better be quick, sweetheart.”

I turned away from him and pretended to browse the shelves. Rows of cigar boxes, some cheap, some in fancy wooden cases with gold lettering. My eyes landed on one in particular—a sleek black box with red and gold trim. The little tag said $49. For one cigar. My first thought was, Damn, that’s gotta be the good stuff.

I glanced back. The guy had pulled out his phone and was scrolling, half-turned away. Perfect.

I reached out, fingers closing around the box. Slid it into my hand, then casually slipped my other hand into the back pocket of my jeans like I was checking for my phone. Really I was feeling for the few crumpled bills I had left. I already knew the answer: five bucks and some change. Nowhere near enough.

My heart started thumping harder.

He’s not even watching, I told myself. He’s on his phone. The counter’s in the way. I could just… walk out.

I swallowed. Tucked the box against my palm, let my hand drop to my side so it was hidden by the angle of my body. My backpack was already full, but I could shove it in there once I was outside.

“Good evening, sir,” I called, voice a little higher than normal. I gave a quick wave like nothing was wrong and pushed back toward the door.

The bell jingled as I stepped out into the hallway.

The second the door closed behind me I let out a shaky breath and grinned to myself.

Holy shit. I did it.

My cheeks were hot. My pulse was racing in my throat. I hurried down the dim corridor, pigtails bouncing, backpack thumping against my lower back. I felt electric—like I’d just pulled off something daring and dangerous and cool.

Well done, girl, I thought, biting my lip to keep from laughing out loud. That was kinda hot.

I didn’t look back once.