JACK IN THE BOX (factual fiction / sexual astrology / semi-erotic)

She felt the cold blast from the sterile air conditioning on her bare arms and thighs, as she ambled down the center of the shopping complex's ground floor. The scene was a swirl of candy bright lights--the Victoria's Secret fuchsia signboard, signboards which lured one to purchase "confidence," or "sexual appeal," or whatever it was that was being advertised--the fluorescent lights in each store, contrasting with the shiny, black-tiled walls and eye-catching speckled marble tiles on the ground.

One could lick the floor--the tiles were spotless, clean like the fake air she was breathing in, like the atoms and cells in her that were decaying in stale neglect.

"Miss…what brand of facial wash do you use?" a cool, level voice asked, breaking through the little bubble Drea was encapsulated in. She heard the words in drifts and drabs--"Miss" and "facial" were the only ones she heard clearly.

Miss Facial…

A young man had appeared, and was standing next to her, quite near to her. He had entered her personal space without even trying. Drea's mind and spirit were so dead and desensitized, that her entire being engaged the well-groomed, pleasant, and easy-to-look-at figure before her. He was a hint of a breath of fresh air/oxygen--and she was happy to take it, even if it lasted for just a second.

It didn't matter that he was a salesman. Anyone with half a brain knew that a salesperson had to be slick to be able to do their job well. But Drea was starved for some attention and open interaction. She saw the figure as a good-looking young, suave, and confident man first and foremost, and as a salesperson, a faraway second.