The man was short-painfully so, at least in his own estimation-and department stores never let him forget it.

He stood beneath the harsh lights of the men’s suit section, jacket after jacket draped over his arm, each one swallowing him whole. Sleeves dangled past his fingertips, shoulders drooped, colors blurred into a parade of gray, navy, and tired charcoal.

“No,” he said again, handing another suit back.

The saleslady forced a smile. She had been with him nearly forty minutes.

“I don’t like it,” he continued. “It’s bland. Dull. It looks like something meant for someone who wants to disappear.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Commission sales meant patience, but patience had limits. He was clearly difficult to fit, impossible to please, and steadily draining her time.

At last, she straightened.

“You know,” she said carefully, “we *do* have a department that might be perfect for you.”

He crossed his arms. “It’s about time.”

She didn’t argue. She simply gestured and began walking.

They passed belts. Shoes. Casualwear.

Then, without ceremony, they entered the **girls’ and juniors’ department**-brightly lit, colorful, full of shorter proportions and expressive designs.

The man stopped short.

“What is this?” he demanded.

She reached for a dress on a nearby rack: light blue, soft fabric, elastic waist, pale yellow trim. Small embroidered flowers dotted the bodice, and a neat Peter Pan collar framed the neckline.