The Shop Mannequins Looked Like People I Had Ghosted

The mannequin in the green jacket looked like Mark, except Mark had never stood with that much confidence in a shop window.

I stopped on the footpath in Hobart and looked again. The face was smooth plastic, barely a face at all. No beard, no eyebrows, no particular expression. Yet the angle of the head was his. So was the slight lift of one shoulder, the posture he'd had while asking if I wanted to meet again.

I had said yes because saying no felt awkward. Then I had not answered when he tried to arrange it.

This was not a thought I had intended to bring shopping.

I was forty-one and meeting someone new that evening. Her name was Anika. We had been messaging for a week, and I liked the way she asked questions that didn't feel copied from a list. I wanted to wear something that made me feel good without looking as though I'd consulted a committee.

I'd walked past the shop before. It wasn't hidden down a mysterious lane or open at an impossible hour. There was a bakery next door and a parking meter out front. A little notice advertised alterations. The complete lack of theatrical warning would bother me later. Apparently an unsettling experience could operate normal retail hours and offer sleeve adjustments.

The green jacket was lovely. The resemblance was ridiculous. I went inside.

A bell sounded above the door. The shop smelled faintly of cedar and steam. Racks of clothing stood beneath warm lights. Behind the counter, a woman folded a scarf with precise, patient movements.

'Afternoon,' she said.

'Hi. Could I try the green jacket in the window?'

'Of course. What size?'

I told her. She went to a rack at the back rather than touching the display. Sensible. Retail workers had enough to do without dismantling a mannequin because I liked its sleeves.

While I waited, I looked around. A second mannequin stood near the changing rooms wearing a dark coat. Its head tilted slightly downwards.

It looked like Elise.

Elise had been a lovely woman I'd dated twice. I hadn't wanted a third date. That part was fine. The part I preferred not to examine was the way I'd promised to send her the name of a book, then let the conversation sit unanswered until the promise became embarrassing.

The mannequin had no hair. Elise had curls. Still, I could see her so clearly that for a moment I expected the plastic head to lift and ask whether I'd ever found the title.

'Here you are,' the woman said behind me.

I turned too quickly. She handed me the jacket and indicated a changing room.

'Everything all right?'

'Your displays are very lifelike.'

She glanced towards the dark coat. 'People bring a lot to them.'

I wasn't sure what that meant. I took the jacket into the cubicle and closed the curtain.

It fitted beautifully. Of course it did. An ordinary bad fit would have given me a clear reason to leave. Instead the shoulders sat properly, the colour suited me and the pockets were actually useful.

I looked in the small mirror. My own face looked ordinary, if slightly tense. No one else's features appeared. I almost laughed at having checked.

Outside the curtain, I heard the soft scrape of something moving across the floor.

'Excuse me?' I called.

'Yes?' The woman's voice came from the counter, farther away than the sound.

'Are you moving the displays?'

'Not at the moment.'

I waited. Nothing else happened. I took off the jacket, put my own cardigan back on and opened the curtain.

The mannequin in the dark coat stood closer to the changing rooms than before. I was almost sure. I had not measured the distance, which seemed like an unreasonable thing to regret during a clothing purchase.

Its right hand pointed slightly outwards. Between two plastic fingers was a small cream card.

I leaned closer. There were no words on it. Just three dots, the familiar shape of a message waiting to be finished.

At the counter, the woman folded another scarf.

'Is this part of a display theme?' I asked.

'Which part?'

I pointed to the card. From the counter, it looked blank. When I turned back, the dots had vanished.

I decided to buy the jacket quickly. That was not rational, but neither was the alternative, which involved explaining to a stranger that her stock had begun reminding me of my dating history.

On the way to the counter, I passed a third mannequin. This one wore a cream shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I recognised the hands before the posture.

Paul.

We had never actually dated. We'd exchanged messages, arranged coffee and then I'd cancelled because I was tired. He'd been kind about it. I'd said I would suggest another day. I never had.

There was no obligation to date him. I knew that. What bothered me now was the small false promise I'd used to make leaving the conversation feel easier. It had been convenient for me and unfinished for him.

The mannequin's hand rested over an empty pocket, exactly where Paul had held his phone in a photograph he'd sent from a walk.

I looked away. Another angle. Another face without a face.

The shop suddenly seemed full of people I had reduced to notifications I didn't want to deal with. Not all of them deserved an apology. Some conversations had naturally ended. Some invitations I'd declined clearly. Those people were absent from the display, at least as far as I could tell.

The figures I recognised were attached to sentences I'd chosen not to finish honestly.

I put the jacket on the counter.

'I'll take it.'

The woman smiled. 'Lovely colour on you.'

I reached for my card. My phone lit up inside my bag with a message from Anika.

Still good for seven?

I opened it. The answer was simple. Yes. Yet I found myself staring at the little text field, remembering how often I'd delayed an ordinary answer because I wanted to phrase it perfectly or keep my options comfortably vague.

Behind me, the floor scraped again.

I typed: Yes. Looking forward to it. See you there.

The shop became very quiet.

The woman asked whether I wanted a bag. I said yes, then no, then apologised and said I had one. She waited without impatience while I unfolded it.

As she wrapped the jacket in tissue, I looked towards the window. The green-jacket mannequin no longer resembled Mark. It was a blank figure wearing clothes. The relief was immediate enough that I felt slightly dizzy.

The dark-coated mannequin still looked like Elise.

I took out my phone again. Her conversation remained archived. I found it with a few taps. The last message was hers, asking for the book title whenever I had a chance and adding that she'd enjoyed the evening.

I had drafted three replies and sent none. The unsent text was still there, an elaborate explanation about a busy week that had apparently lasted eight months.

I deleted it.

Then I wrote a short message. I apologised for leaving her hanging after saying I'd reply. I gave her the book title. I said she didn't need to respond; I just wanted to acknowledge I'd handled the ending poorly.

I read it carefully. It contained no invitation to reassure me, no explanation designed to make my behaviour inevitable and no suggestion that she should be grateful I'd finally found five minutes.

I sent it.

Nothing dramatic happened. The lights didn't flicker. The bell didn't ring. The woman finished wrapping the jacket and placed it in my bag.

When I looked towards the changing rooms, the dark coat hung on an ordinary plastic body. Its hand was empty.

I felt relief again, followed by a less comfortable thought. I didn't want to start treating apologies as coins I could put into a machine until the room stopped frightening me. The people in those conversations deserved better than becoming a way to clear a shop display.

I put the phone away.

'I need a minute,' I told the woman.

'Of course.'

There was a bench near the door. I sat with the bag in my lap. Through the window, people passed carrying groceries and umbrellas. A child pointed at a dog. A delivery rider checked an address. The ordinary world was still available if I could finish being here.

I thought about Mark and Paul. I could consider whether reaching out now would be useful, and what I actually wanted to acknowledge. I didn't need to send everyone a grand catalogue of my regrets from a bench in a clothing shop. One clear message had been possible. Others required the same care, not a sudden performance of being improved.

When I stood, the cream-shirted mannequin no longer looked exactly like Paul. It looked like a stranger whose posture I might once have known. That seemed less like a reward than a reminder of how uncertain memory could be.

I thanked the woman and moved towards the door.

'Big evening?' she asked.

'A date.'

'Enjoy yourself.'

'I hope so.'

The bell sounded as I opened the door. Outside, the air was sharp and clean. I took three steps, then turned back because I wanted one final ordinary look at the window.

The mannequin in the green jacket moved.

There was no ambiguity this time. Its arm lifted from its side. The plastic hand reached for the hanging shop sign. With a slow, deliberate turn, it changed OPEN to CLOSED.

Then the arm lowered.

I stood on the pavement holding my new jacket. Behind the glass, the mannequin's blank head faced me. It had no eyes to meet mine and no mouth with which to make the point any clearer.

The woman behind the counter continued folding.

I walked away.

That evening, Anika complimented the jacket. I thanked her. When she asked where I'd bought it, I gave the street name but said I couldn't remember the shop's name. This was true. I had somehow never looked.

We had a good date. Not a miraculous one, not a new life announced over the first drink. Just a conversation with a person I liked, in which I tried to answer the questions she'd actually asked.

At the end, she asked whether I'd like to meet again.

I said yes because I meant yes. Then we chose a day.

Later, at home, a message arrived from Elise. She thanked me for the book title and said she appreciated the apology. Nothing more was required of either of us.

I hung the green jacket in my wardrobe. Its sleeves settled into place, empty and still.

Before closing the door, I checked them once.

Then I turned off the light.