Marvin looked at the boyfriend, who was now mouthing please don’t from behind a mannequin wearing a baby-doll nightie. He looked at the receipt—faded, but bearing a date, a timestamp, and the first three letters of a credit card name: MAR .
"I like the float."
The salesman must then decide: Do you violate the sacred trust of the fitting room by arguing? Or do you let her leave in a torture device? The nightmare is the silence. You watch her walk to the register, buying a bra that offers less support than a spiderweb, knowing that in three hours, she will be back, screaming about shoulder pain. The Lingerie Salesman S Worst Nightmare
