“Did you hear that?” You drop the bâtard aux olives and hasten into the stacks where you light upon a familiar pair of eyeglasses hugging an orange balaclava. Behind the wearer lie two motionless figures beyond bubbled curls of acrylic.

“I always liked you. Get out of here.”

A muffled thud, then something rolling; the terrazzo shivers. Already turning, you won’t need to be told twice.

“Wait.”

The sphincter of fear immobilizes you as he draws the warm muzzle from the hem of your skirt to your lips.

“If things end badly, you should get my Olympia Press Lolita.”