1.
A man, whom I call sir, is trying to decide which necklace to get his wife: a teardrop amethyst on a thin silver chain or a gold lariat with an open circle. To help him make a choice, I've laid both necklaces side by side on a black velvet pad.

"I still don't know," he says, pressing his fingers down on the bright display case that separates us. After he leaves the store, I'll Windex away the smudges he's left on the glass, but for now, I pretend to not notice.

"Could you try it on?" he asks, pointing to the amethyst.

This is the part I dread, the part where I feel as though I, too, am for sale, but I hide it.

"Absolutely!" I say, picking up the necklace.

Once I fasten it in place, I stretch my neck and look him in the eyes, searching for his approval. I move slightly left, then slightly right so he can see the necklace from different angles. He squints as he imagines what it will look like on his wife.

"I'll take it," he finally says. 

Although my coworkers and I joke about the awkwardness of trying on jewelry for the men who shop at the store, we always oblige because we know it means we'll make the sale. Once a man has you try on the item, he's already decided he's going to buy the piece.

2.
A man in his late 20s wearing a suit that hangs on him wants to get a sense of what the pearl drop earrings will look like on his newlywed wife.

I hold one earring up to my ear, but he tells me that won't work. I'm too dark.

"She's very pale," he says, "with light blue eyes."

I'm both relieved and offended that I'm not the right model for the job, but I don't let on.

"Alice," I call out gently to my white coworker, "would you mind assisting us?"

She looks up from the cash register and smiles. "I'd be happy to," she says.

After she puts the earrings on, she shakes her head so they dangle and says "ahhh" as if she's just performed a magic trick. Her joy looks so genuine that I can't tell if it's real or not.

The man buys not only the earrings but a matching pearl bracelet as well. I put them in a single box and finish it with a silk bow as he and Alice chat about restaurants in the neighborhood.

"I know she'll love it," Alice says when she hands him the bag. She says it with a touch of longing, as though she wishes she had a husband like him. This part I can tell is fake.

3.
A boy—technically he's a man, but to me, he is a boy—has brought his buddies with him to buy an engagement ring. I want to tell him he's too young to get married, but instead, I help him pick out something that fits within his budget—a knife-edge solitaire with an imitation diamond.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says as I ring him up.

"You're very welcome," I say.

Congratulations is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to say it.

4.
The only piece of jewelry my husband ever gave me was the garnet ring he presented when he proposed. He said it was his grandmother's. I thought it looked plain and cheap, but I kept this to myself. I didn't want to seem ungrateful.

Eventually, the ring grew on me. I liked the deep wine color, and that it looked so delicate on my hand. I preferred it to my thick silver wedding band, which at first I thought looked sophisticated, but over time looked cold.

I wore the garnet ring every day for over a decade, not for my husband, or as a symbol of marriage. I wore it for my delight.

5.
Twice a year, a scientist comes to town for a conference and each time he stops by the store to pick out something for his wife. He doesn't need a model. He likes to hold the piece of jewelry close to his face and rub it between his thumb and index finger. Sometimes he asks if he can take it to the window to see what it looks like under natural light.

When I first started working at the store, I thought his gift-giving tradition was so romantic. I'd imagine his wife holding her hair up with one hand as he helped her put on a necklace—his warm breath against her skin. But now, five years later, I'm suspicious that his gifts are motivated by guilt—an affair—not faithful desire.

Experience and time have cooled and hardened me.

6.
On the steps outside the courthouse, on the day we finalize the divorce, I try to give the garnet ring back to my now ex-husband. It seems like the right thing to do since it belonged to his grandmother.

"That's OK," he says. "You keep it."

I don't know if he's being kind or cruel. Maybe both: he wants me to have a memento, but also know that the ring isn't valuable to him. Giving the ring back was supposed to give me closure. I assumed he would thank me. I slip it back into my purse and feel sorry for it, as though it were a living thing—an unwanted child.

I feel the urge to hug him one last time, but stop myself because it feels inappropriate to touch. In a few weeks, he'll propose to another woman with a ring I'll never see.


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