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You curt tail me through the store, sweat tumbling over your brow. Coach, Michael, Fendi, Minolo. I'm high now, soaring. It's all mine. The teller hands me the pen to seal the deal, and you watch me- a look of desperation and enticement wrapped up in a pathetic package. I scrawl my name haphazardly on the dotted line. I hear you choke on some unimportant blundering and glare daggers at you, my pretty pink pumps penetrating your lower leg in tandem. "Don't say a word, pindick. " I whisper as a sache out of the store.