so I may have told this story hundreds of times to those with the excellent fortune of being physically acquainted with myself. alas, I’ve yet to publish said tale for the ages:
¶ I was spending another evening at the urbs, on my hands and knees, fluffing as I do so well when I’m asked to do so, when I hear footsteps approaching me and my mound of unfolded quilts.
¶ “excuse me? excuse me, sir?”
¶ I pushed myself back up to face my inquisitor. young, female, with an innocent round face. mousy, actually, and wearing one of those puffy north face things—which are quite warm and sensible, but what that charming mister torres calls with such disdain—“flotation devices.” I could tell by her accent that she was french, or at the very least, canadian. tourist, obvi.
¶ “excuse me, but can you please tell me what is this ‘sloot’?” she held up a flask, a more popular item, though a tad overpriced. the concept was simple, but genius in its own state-school-sorority-girl kind of way: it’s merely a metallic flask, and in a pink, voluptuous, curly font, was emblazoned with the word SLUT.
¶ “can you please tell me what eh uh ‘sloot’ means?”
¶ she was quite earnest, mind you. there was nothing in her tone or modest demeanor that suggested anything in the way of pubescent malice.
¶ so, conjuring up my most retail-friendly smile and seven years of french, I replied: “vous êtes de france, n’est-ce pas? mais oui, c’est comme—c’est comme un putain!”
¶ innocent or not, this petit femme knew precisely what a putain was. at first, her face collapsed into blushes and embarassment, and then wound its way into a crooked little smile. she thanked me, and left.
¶ a few minutes later, I glanced at the cash wrap and saw her paying for her items. she ended up buying four.