Clearly they had been there long, descended on the hapless piles like vultures on a zebra corpse, the bright fabrics in the bargain bin could hardly be seen in the flurry of arms, manicured fingers, and jostling handbags.
The musk hit you with the rolling heatwave, like stepping into a wall of eau de primal instinct. Every woman for herself, occasionally a helpless male bobbed along in the crush of hangers, tags, and made up faces.
It was not a sight for the faint hearted as bits of material were clutched covetously to heaving bosoms struggling towards the cash register while others made a beeline, actually more akin to a smoke particle in a Brownian diffusion experiment, to rejoin the melee. I don't know if there was such a thing as rejoining the heaving mass of female hormones because it sort of sucked you in, in a dance that seemed random, but not quite. It was complete and utter chaos.
And the clothes weren't even all that pretty. It felt like one big joke. That they would put up discount signs and really old stock in a persychological study on how easy it is to whip our hunter-gatherer instincts into a frenzy. I bet somewhere there are men in white clothes laughing behind a one way mirror.
This is the MNG sale.
No comments:
Post a Comment