'I would like to return this sweater'.
'By all means, Madam. Do you have a receipt?'.
'Why yes, yes I do'.
'And for our purposes only, why are you returning said item'?
She leaned in close. Whispering, 'Because it's too large. I cannot reach the straw'.
'You see. Here', barely audible and pointing, 'I cannot reach the straw from this portal'.
'Oh, we can't have that', he whispered sarcastically. He pressed a large red button hidden behind the return counter's chromed edge with a fat calloused index finger and smiled a yellow toothy grin. The creaking floor gave way, a blur of heavy overcoat, leather purse, flashy jewelry, and knit-capped hair(she just had it done!), plunging and screaming into darkness, witnessed by a winding line of horrified gift reject whisperers. I dropped the ebook reader, snug in its styrofoam, and ran out with the other quiet people, single file and orderly, running straight home, breathless, to Tom Joad, Walter Mitty, Kilgore Trout, and all my other faithful friends.
photo by Vincent Fournier