A man and a woman are in the lingerie section at Macy's. It seems like they've been shopping for a while. It seems this way by the number of bags they are carrying. White House | Black Market, Nordstrom, Gap. And maybe this is their last stop, and also something of an afterthought. But I wouldn't know this. I couldn't know this. It also seems, by the looks of things, they don't go shopping all that often. It's possible they have a real impatience when it comes to this sort of thing. It's possible the only reason they are doing it now, in fact, is because it has become absolutely necessary. Jeans that no longer fit—the current pair barely held up by a thick brown belt. A black blazer that has been lost, perhaps while traveling in areas north of here. Maybe it's undershirts that bring them to this particular location in the mall. Or bras.

Who knows, though? I'm just making this stuff up.

By the looks of things, it also seems there might be a TiVo recording a football game somewhere in these people's lives. It might be that the football game has been billed as the "Battle of the Unbeatens," and the knowledge of this game being played right now while their eyes itch from the dry air of the department store, and their feet swell, and their minds hum—well, it seems to be distracting them. It's possible they're both fans of the football. They look a little tired. A little antsy, maybe. There could be a cold IPA in this man's imminent future.

All of this, of course, is conjecture.

"Do you like this?" says the woman, motioning to a slight mannequin wearing a bra-and-panties ensemble. The panties have a gold and black pattern. They are lacy around the edges and they are square-cut. The bra is patterned similarly. Gold and black and lace.

"Mmm-hmm," says the man, affirmatively. "Yes, I do." He seems like the kind of guy that really goes for those square-cut-panty numbers. You can spot the type from a mile away.

The woman fingers a strap on the bra. "They always make these cute sets for small-breasted women," she says.

The man takes a step closer and assesses the mannequin. He extends his hand and cups it over the right breast. The breast disappears under his hand, fitting neatly in his palm. "You're right," he says, turning to the woman. "Small." He smiles proudly. It might be he thinks he made a pretty funny joke. Though it's hard to say for sure.

There is some head-shaking from the woman now. Maybe a sigh could be heard. Some exasperation, perhaps. "I really didn't need the illustration," she says, looking around them to see if any of the other respectable women shopping for lingerie had noticed the lowbred oaf standing next to her feeling up the mannequin. She turns, muttering something about embarrassment.

Moments like these, it's easier to write about myself in the third person.

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