Foot movement is a silent language. Let's say it in so many words. The
decompression zone is jammed, wallet carriers are exiting before they reach
their desired item. The focus group spends a lot of time and energy
attempting to control outside stimuli (it's a withholding mother thing), so
when they start mixing patterns that's when those in-and-out micro movements
commence firing. Coming at you. Let their shadows fill in the blanks, so many
words left to process they want to throw themselves against party lines. Or
under them. Grace maneuvers me through cosmetics, deftly dodging the kamikaze
perfume sprayer-cum-actress, and up the linens aisle to goose down
comforters, where we examine the cargo without fear of gooseneck surveillance
cameras. I sulk when I discover the clipped coupon wares are temporarily out
of stock, no further notice until contract negotiations between union leaders
and fascist Peruvian plutocrats emerge from their standstill. Same the world
all over, Grace comments, with an air of sanctimonious disgust. On our way
out we bump into the just back from lunch focus group who have that glazed
ham look in their eyes. "Better them than us," Grace surmises, as we're
revolved back into the gutter, wiser if not breaking even.