Retail Exposure Therapy

Jeff clocks in at 9:58 a.m., two minutes early because being late makes his brain feel like it’s vibrating under his skin. His coffee already half gone, Smile walking at his side like a shadow that breathes. The store smells like smoke, weed, and whatever incense corporate thought was edgy this season.

Jane’s behind the counter with her clipboard. “You’re on the back wall all day,” she says. “I’ll run jewelry and register. Toby’s up front folding — corporate wants the T-shirt wall ‘perfect.’”

Up front, Toby is already stacking cotton squares with monk-level focus, shoulders twitching now and then, a quiet whistle slipping out between breaths. He gives Jeff a thumbs-up that turns into a quick hand shake tic. “We got this,” he mutters.

Jeff nods once and heads to the back. Smile pads beside him, vest on, ears forward, steady as ever. Smile settles near his boots while he straightens boxes, lines up displays, and flips into work mode — neutral tone, no judgment, just answers.

The first customers are awkward couples pretending they’re just browsing novelty socks until they drift toward the sex toy wall like magnets. Jeff leans against the shelving, arms crossed, neutral face on.

A nervous guy picks up a box, flips it over three times, then whispers, “Uh… is this… waterproof?”

Jeff answers without blinking. “Yes. Also quiet. Battery included.”

Smile settles at Jeff’s feet, chin on paws, calm in a sea of giggles and plastic packaging. A woman asks for recommendations “for beginners,” cheeks bright red. Jeff switches to his work voice — direct, respectful, no jokes. He gestures to a lower shelf, explains features in plain language, and hands her a recommended product. 

She leaves relieved. Jeff exhales.

Jane passes by, gives him a subtle thumbs-up.

Another couple hovers near the shelves pretending to compare belts before drifting further into the back.

“Uh,” the guy says, voice low, “which ones are… quiet?”

Jeff gestures to a row without making it weird. “Those three. Rechargeable. Different intensities.”

They relax almost immediately. People usually do when someone treats their questions like normal human questions.

Smile dozes, chin on paws, unbothered by the giggles and whispered debates over packaging.

A group of college kids barrels in like a storm — loud laughter, jangling bracelets, energy that bounces off the walls. They wander straight to the back and start grabbing things just to see reactions.

One guy picks up a flogger and swats his friend across the thigh.

Smack.

Laughter explodes. Someone grabs a second one. Another smack, harder this time, the sound sharp enough to spike Jeff’s nerves.

Smile stands, pressing into Jeff’s leg.

Jeff steps forward, voice calm but firm. “Hey — not for play fighting in the store. Put it down, please.”

They pause, startled.

“Seriously,” Jeff adds, meeting their eyes. “You can look, ask questions — just don’t hit each other with the merch.”

A girl snorts. “Okay, fair.”

They set the floggers back on the hook. One of them mutters an apology; another asks an actual question about materials and safety. Jeff answers professionally, redirects the energy into browsing instead of chaos.

Jane gives him a subtle nod from across the aisle — good call.

The group leaves a few minutes later, still loud but no longer weaponizing the merchandise.

Jeff exhales. Smile leans heavier for a second, then settles again.

 His thoughts start to tangle — words overlapping, whispers creeping in at the edges.

Smile stands and leans gently into Jeff’s leg.

Jeff grounds himself in the weight, the warmth, the steady breathing at his side. He focuses on straightening up merchandise, restocking products, and counting rows of lube. Jane turns the music down half a notch from the back — small adjustment, big difference.

Up front, Toby folds T-shirts with surgical precision. A sharp vocal tic cracks through the air; he winces, then keeps going, stacking shirts like a champion. Jeff catches his eye from across the store. Toby salutes with a roll of X-large size stickers. Jeff laughs.

The back wall brings out the most honest versions of people.

A middle-aged woman wants something comfortable and asks Jeff to explain the difference between silicone and plastic like she’s comparing kitchen tools. He does — simple, clear, practical. She thanks Smile on the way out like he helped pick.

A bachelor party wanders through asking embarrassing questions on purpose. Jeff keeps a straight face, answers what’s real, ignores the rest. Jane swoops in to redirect them toward novelty party favors before things get too obnoxious.

A middle-aged man approaches the wall like he’s about to confess a crime.

“So,” he begins, too loudly, “my wife says I’m… emotionally unavailable.”

Jeff nods. “You looking for something specific?”

The man launches into a fifteen-minute monologue about marriage, intimacy, and an unfortunate incident with massage oil. Jeff listens, redirects gently, recommends a couple of options that prioritize comfort and communication.

Halfway through, Jeff’s focus flickers — a shadow moves wrong in the corner of his vision. Smile nudges his hand, a quiet hey. Jeff blinks, re-centers, finishes the explanation.

The customer leaves with a small bag and a sheepish “thanks, man.”

Jeff scratches behind Smile’s ear. “Good.”

Jane watches over the back while Jeff eats in the stockroom — a sandwich Liu dropped off earlier. Smile curls against his boots. The fluorescent hum is softer back here; the quiet helps.

Toby pops his head in between customers snagging a quick chug of water. “You alive?”

“Barely,” Jeff says.

Toby laughs, then hiccups a sudden bark-like tic and grimaces. Jeff bumps his shoulder. No big deal. Just two coworkers surviving retail.

In the last few minutes of his 30 minute break Jeff finishes the last bite, grabs a swig of water, and heads back out.

Mid-afternoon hits hard — someone triggers a novelty scream button near the registers. A second group laughs too loud. Jeff’s thoughts start to blur, whispers crawling along the edges of his focus.

Smile nudges his hand.

Jeff steadies himself by reorganizing a shelf — counting rows, aligning boxes, breathing in rhythm with the dog’s quiet presence. Jane lowers the music slightly, subtle but noticeable.

The world settles enough to keep going.

A woman in her fifties asks for something “not too intense but not boring.” She’s honest, curious, and completely unashamed. Jeff appreciates the straightforwardness. He walks her through materials, noise levels, cleaning routines. She thanks Smile on the way out like he personally approved her purchase.

A teenage couple wanders in next, whispering and giggling. Jeff keeps it professional — answers their awkward questions, stays firm on his personal boundaries, and redirects them to novelty items that move them away from the creature cocks. Jane handles a return at the counter with her usual calm authority. 

The afternoon blurs into a rhythm: questions, recommendations, restocking, breathing.

Energy crashes hit Jeff hard around late afternoon. His limbs feel heavy, thoughts foggy. He leans against the wall a second longer than usual.

Smile stands, presses into his thigh.

Jeff takes the hint — drinks water, rolls his shoulders, resets the display. Jane clocks the shift in his posture from across the store and tell hom to take a quick five-minute break. No fuss. No spotlight.

In the back room, Jeff sits on a crate while Smile rests his chin on Jeff’s knee. The world slows enough to feel manageable again.

After work crowds roll in — couples, curious solo shoppers, people who clearly drew the short straw in a friend group dare.

One guy asks Jeff if Smile is “trained to detect bad decisions.”

Jeff deadpans, “Just mine.”

Even Jane cracks a smile at that.

Toby’s still folding T-shirts up front, stacks growing and collapsing as customers dig through them. He rebuilds each pile with relentless patience, shoulders twitching, voice humming through tics and laughter.

Jeff keeps moving — answering questions, straightening displays, reminding a group gently not to open merchandise to test vibration settings.

Smile stays close, grounding and steady through every spike of noise or flicker of unease.

A bachelorette party giggles through the aisles. A guy in a suit pretends he’s lost while asking extremely specific questions. Someone sets off a novelty sound button that screams every time it’s pressed.

Toby’s tics spike with the noise; he hums louder to steady himself, folding faster, hands moving like metronomes. Jane floats between registers, refunds, and customer drama like a general on a pothead battlefield.

Jeff keeps his voice level, answers questions without judgment, and lets Smile anchor him when the chaos threatens to tip him over.

At one point, a customer asks if Smile is “trained to judge people’s purchases.” Jeff blinks, “Yeah.” The customer laughs; tension breaks.

The door locks at eight. The store goes quiet in that sudden, almost sacred way retail spaces do after a long day.

Jeff and Toby restock the shirt wall together — Toby lining up stacks of shirts with obsessive symmetry, Jeff refolding shirts. Jane counts the till and taps keyboard numbers like a drumbeat.

When everything is finally squared away, they collapse near the counter with deep sighs.

“Flogger kids were… something,” Jane says.

Jeff huffs a quiet laugh. “Could’ve been worse.”

Toby salutes Smile with a perfectly folded black T-shirt. “Employee of the month.”

Smile thumps his tail like he accepts the honor.

Jeff leans against the counter, tired but steady. The day wasn’t perfect — there were whispers, dips, spikes — but he stayed present. He helped people. He made it through.

After bag checks, Jane flicks off the lights one by one. Toby shoulders his backpack, humming under his breath. Jeff clips Smile’s leash, gives one last glance at the quiet aisles.

“Same time tomorrow?” Jane asks.

Jeff shakes his head. “Nope, I’m off tomorrow.”

“Alrighty then,” Jane says. “Catch you later.”

Toby gives a small wave. “Have a good ni—hah—night… get home safe.”

Outside, the evening air is cool. Smile walks half a step ahead, steady tension guiding the pace.  Jeff feels wrung out but grounded — a whole shift spent answering weird questions, managing chaos, and staying present despite the noise in his head. He heads towards his car, just another long, messy, ordinary day at work with coworkers who get it and a dog who never leaves his side.