The Fairfield Mall is architecturally ill-conceived. Malls are supposed to be celebrations of consumerism, with lavish glass-panel ceilings and grand columns. The Fairfield Mall, on the other hand, would have looked more at home in post-communist Romania. A daring brutalist structure, it contrasts starkly with the Taco Bell and the Ross shoes outlet it shares the parking lot with. In a sea of cookie-cutter buildings, the unclad concrete structure is a nice change. I guess it’s my favorite mall. A lot of people bitch about it, decrying its “gloomy” appearance, but I always liked that, because that’s literally what it is: a massive, grey block with dirty windows. The stores inside the mall aren’t that great either. Ever since Sears closed for good, it has been downhill from there. What’s left are a bunch of second-rate stores; you know, junk jewelers and bargain clothing stores where everything is made from polyester. But I don’t go there to shop anyways, so it doesn’t matter to me either way. You can go for real nice walks at the Fairfield. It’s like always half-empty, so you’re not bothering anyone when you’re walking back and forth from one end to the other. The air-conditioner is always on, too, which is a real relief in summer. And no one ever comes up to you, looking like they expect you to buy anything. The teenaged employees at the sunglass and phone case stalls rarely look up from their devices anyways and when they do, it’s just to give the odd, bored look before they return to their screens. I’m not the only one who enjoys walking here; there are a bunch of seniors who show up mid-morning with insulated flasks of coffee and trail mix. That’s how I met Rhonda. Rhonda is a late-sixties divorcee with a messy pile of peroxided hair and an overly pink lipsticked mouth. Usually, there’s some pink on her teeth as well, but most people are too polite to say anything about it. She wheezes when she walks, a rattling sound escaping her poor, black tarred lungs, yet she refuses to give up smoking. “I’m like a moth to the flame, baby” or “Everybody has to die of something, I might as well die of lung cancer” are her answers when advised to quit smoking. I mean, I’ve tried as well to make her quit, telling her how much money I saved since I gave up 30 years ago. I also told her how easy it was, which was only a half-lie or half-truth, depending on your point of view. My husband made me quit, telling me he wouldn’t pay for it any more. When Joe put his foot down, he really did; there was no point in arguing, so I had to quit. He thought it was a low-class, nasty habit. “Common as muck” was his expressions for things like that. I wonder what he would have made of Rhonda; I guess he wouldn’t have liked her very much. I didn’t tell her that, though, about my husband; I don’t talk a lot about Joe. He was a good man, or at least he could be, but was he ever strict. Reminded me of my mother, in a way.

Anyways, I meet Rhonda every day but Friday and the weekend at the mall. First, we chat a bit, you know, the usual things, the weather, health, family, the garden, things like that. Then we do our exercises. Back and forth, from one point of the mall to the other, we walk, Rhonda’s rattle and the squeaking of my tennis shoes echoing through the nearly empty building. We both like walking in the mall the best. Outside, its often too hot or too cold and the walking paths are in the woods, filled with gnats and roots to trip over. If you fall and can’t get up, how will they find you? I guess I’m too old for that. The mall is always the same temperature—the aircon makes sure of that—the ground is even and if you would hurt yourself, there are still enough people to help you out. Me and Rhonda, we walk for about an hour every day, and when we’re done, we sit down at the relaxation spot, opposite the sunglass hut and drink coffee and eat granola bars we brought with us. I like her company, but we don’t see each other outside of the mall, I’m not really sure why, but that’s the way it is and I’m okay with that and I’m sure so is Rhonda. We met by just seeing each other walking in the mall often and one day I just asked her how she was. She said fine and we started chatting and now we have this routine for about a year. A routine is a comforting thing. I used to have one with Joe, but then he was gone and I needed a new one and I’m really glad I found one.

You’d think walking in the mall would tempt you into buying stuff you don’t really need just because you’re there. But it’s not really like that, for me anyways. It’s more you don’t really notice all the stuff because you’re focused on walking and your own thoughts, so it doesn’t even register that you could be shopping. And even if you notice something, it often has more to do with memories than a want. Like when I walk past the jewelry stand, with all the fat gold chains and crucifixes lying on red velvet, I see the sad and pained expression of Jesus looking down from his cross. The crucifixes hang from heavy chains, the sort only men wear and I think of my schooldays. The boys in my class used to wear these chains, and if they’re still alive, they probably still do. There was one boy, George, who always put his cross in the mouth when he was thinking hard about something. His brow would wrinkle underneath the floppy hair and he would push the cross into his mouth. The teacher would scold him for that, but he never seemed to mind. I guess I was sweet on him, because I’d watch him when I thought he wasn’t looking. The picture of him writing with the cross in his mouth and his fingers playing with his hair is frozen in my mind. I can’t remember his last name, though. One of our teachers, crazy Mr. Lloyd, was an old coot. He probably should have retired way earlier from teaching, but he used to be the headmaster and he loved teaching, so no one dared suggesting retirement to him. Once he came up to George, in the middle of class, for seemingly no reason, and told him: “You wear your cross on a golden chain. Boy, you wear your cross on a golden chain.” He kept repeating this for a while and that phrase has been stuck in my mind ever since. Whenever I see a crucifix with a gold chain, I hear old Mr. Lloyd’s voice going: “You wear your cross on a golden chain. Boy, you wear your cross on a golden chain.” And now, passing the stand, I hear it again.

I’m on my way to the relaxation area, with its fake plants and park benches; I can already see Rhonda sitting there, doing a crossword puzzle with her reading glasses pushed down to the tip of her nose. I wave and holler at her, but she doesn’t answer.  I hope this instance will be frozen in my mind, too.