At a certain point, some outfits became so pointlessly exposing, in Marsha’s opinion, that their wearers ought to just walk around nude and be done ...ith it. In this case, the receptionist seemed like she would’ve been just fine with that. If ravenous moths consumed all of her clothes, she, doubtless, wouldn’t even bother to try covering herself. ‘Um,’ Marsha said, timidly. ‘Um,’ she tried again. ‘I, um, I’m here for my appointment.’ ‘Oooookay!’ the receptionist replied, brightening. ‘That means. I quickly made up my mind and got off my chair and quietly took position behind her jutting buttocks. “Hi!” she turned around on her heels, “I was just…” but she stopped talking. Perhaps it was my shit-eating grin, or perhaps it was the conspiratorial twinkle in my eyes, or perhaps she saw the bulge in my trouser, or perhaps she had similar thoughts as me while she was bent over the printer, her cheeks were flushed red and she looked excited. I recognised that this excitement had little to do. More

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