You like my dress and start groping the material with your big hands. It’s a miniscule toilet area. I’m not sure where to look. Your friend joins us in the queue and she’s fond of the dress too. She’s always wanted to make clothes she says as we marvel at the material. Two people exit the cubicle wiping noses, looking like twenty year olds, acting like toddlers. We all examine our eyelashes. You discover you no longer need to stay here. I see you later, a fur draped over your shoulders, shouting abuse at a police officer in the street.
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