A customer would surreptitiously become an extension of her shadow stretched on the floor at dusk, the shop close to closing. Eventually he would slip up and she would notice him staring at her. She smiled politely, of course. It was her giving the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes, she ended up pleasantly relieved, and it was all paranoia. But sometimes, like today, the stranger would find ways to come closer--to peruse a rack of pots nearby, or inspect the quality of a bunch of flowers’ petals. Finally, he made contact. And as it usually went with these types, the conversation started off innocuous enough. But when she tried to make a completely appropriate exit--she was at work, after all--the man reached out and caught the side of her apron between his fingers, the knuckles brushing her hip on the way there. Vartouhi froze up, as usual. It always took a few seconds to draw up the courage to ward away strangers like him. This time, it was taking a bit longer, because his fingers were resting against her hip, and it felt so wildly inappropriate that she was shocked he would do it in public.