The girl at The Gap says “you’re back” as I set the sensors off with a chime.
“I’m just waiting for my girl” I reply with a bit of automated charm.
I’ve been pacing in ovals for fifteen minutes. Had I the body of a humble Asian boy, my eyes would be affixed on material pursuits, made in another land by hardworking, albeit, underage hands.
There is music above me, from the corners of my shopping box waiting room.
No magazines or water tanks with paper cups.
Just, mannequins and music; all of it whispering sweet nothings.
All of it manhandled by eager teenagers.
All of it waiting as well to be seen and heard.
These melodies and plastic amputees, are seeking loving homes, like me.
She steps out of the dressing room with bargains draped over her forearm and the foresight of thrifty ancestors before her. She never asks what I think or how it looks. She’s too confident for that sort of curiosity.
There are mirrors behind us now, and none of them tell the absolute truth.
The girl at The Gap says “thanks, come again”.
She grins with a grin that thinks we’re finally going home.
But she’s wrong.
My home is leaving with me, arm in arm.
