TheBanyanTree: At The Mall

[Monique Young]

The smell came at us first, flowery and overly sweet, harbingers of decayed
youth and one too many, or more likely many more than one, nights spent
looking for some excitement, something of interest, something to do,
anything at all that would keep one from becoming stale and boring/bored. As
we rounded the corner the phalanx came at us head on, four women approaching
the interior of the mall itself and, even faster it appeared, middle age.
One can imagine the horror they would have felt if that hypothesis had been
advanced to them, for they were clearly, in their parlance, “hot.” Tight
pants, low cut tanks, masses of hair, fashionable black, and frightening
cleavage. (How can cleavage be frightening? When it’s no longer a part of a
person but an entity in and of itself, when the person behind it is merely
an afterthought, not particularly necessary to the entire look, but the
person does keep the cleavage from looking foolish as it parades by itself,
since cleavage suspended in midair alone could cause some confusion. I’m
told some men like that look, but there’s no accounting for tastes, is
there?) They were obviously on a mission to storm the mall, to ransack it of
all valuables, to carry large shopping bags home at the end of the day
filled with, no doubt, more clothes for their cleavage. 

We managed to advance through the approaching cleavage without harm, though
laughter was welling up even as we did so, and as we walked out of the mall
itself and into the bright sunshine I lifted my arms to the sky and said, “I
am going shopping! Everyone out of my way, for I and my cleavage are going
shopping!” “With my cleavage I can take over the world! Stand back!” We
could not stop laughing, though we didn’t really try very hard.

The cleavage ladies, if they had been able to hear us, would no doubt have
done one of three things. They might have pretended we didn’t exist. Some
people live in their own universe where others do not exist, and they
appeared to be of that ilk. They might have swept their heavily made up eyes
over unfashionable me, bestowed pitying glances on my fiancé, and considered
me a poor unfortunate who only wished she had cleavage. (I consider this: I
may not be impressed with my looks, but at least I know people see me when
they look at me, and I do not appear as a piece of anatomy on its own. I
rather prefer this. Call me old-fashioned if you must.) Or they may have
whipped out their stun guns and shot us. There’s really no telling. 

I hope the cleavage ladies were able to find the appropriate items for their
cleavage. If you were to ask me what any of them looked like I wouldn’t be
able to tell you. Hair. Black clothes. Cleavage. And too much perfume. I
don’t even recall them looking happy, but maybe that was because they were
too busy concentrating on world affairs and the state of the environment.