He did not let go. That surprised her a little. Men like him usually let go. Men like him had been raised to hold doors and pull out chairs and step aside, and she had been counting on that, if she was honest, the way you count on a car to stop at a red light. Instead he tightened his grip and pulled, just slightly, and the box slid two inches toward him.
She pulled it back three.
He pulled it back two.
It went on like that, the box sliding back and forth along the edge of the shelf between them, the butterscotch doll staring out through her cellophane window with an expression of serene, painted neutrality. Around them the crowd had begun to notice. A boy of about eight stopped chewing his gum.
The man said, "It's for my niece."
Gina said, "It's for my nephew."
The box went back and forth. He was stronger, but she had better footing, and she had the advantage of having grown up with three male cousins who believed that any object in the house belonged to whoever was holding it when Aunt Philomena called them to dinner. She planted her heels. He adjusted his.
Then he narrowed his eyes. Behind the tortoiseshell frames they were a clear gray-green, like the lake in October, and they had become very, very interested in her.
"How old's your nephew?"