Dwayne’s moccasins are soundless on the carpet of Women’s Delicates. This wasn’t the best place to come–they’ll inevitably be drawn here–but he was cut off from Shoes and could not be forced into Electronics.
He sweeps his mane back over one shoulder, listening. His advantage is hearing; shushed giggles are like sirens to him. Theirs are numbers, and the range of their accursed cameras.
Sometimes he wonders if he could avoid all this–shop elsewhere, perhaps, or move where the sport is unknown…
But no. He wears the mullet, and they are the mullet hunters.
There is no other way.