Judea Visits the Mimic Stall

Judea be vibeing:

Or, rather, he be forcing vibes. It is a stiff, vertical dance, fists in air. Doris knows that this is abnormal but that this is normal at the base of this ladder. Doris is not sure what goes, up on shopping centre roof, because Doris is camel.

Well, Johno bangs a spoon on fry pan, singing come, and, eat my ass. April leaves the crate of Slut Root at the mercy of the honour system. Amy hawks a drop-bear fur and Emily imagines a coat and hat combo.

Judea scans their wares on his way, pretending that he does not have destination in mind. His destination is the Mimic Stall. Wares on shelves: a gently breathing treasure chest with teeth, a quart jar (of beans) salivating with lolling tongue, a bag of sugar branded I Can Totally Believe This Is Sugar. These shelves frame a cute woman.

(Let's do an elevator eyes, which the reader may skip. The stall holder is, uh, mid-to-late twenties? Light brown hair is parted centre-forehead to flow, as easily as this sentence, over ears to just past shoulder blades. Her waist is 36.5 cm wide. Yeah, that's male gaze done - oh, wait, C-cups. Box ticked.)

She smiles Moët: 'Hello, Judea. How are you? How's Doris?'

'Uh, we're both well. Thank you. And. How are you?'

'I've always loved spring.'

'Yes. Good. I, uh, have some Mimic Blood.'

'Oh really? I suppose you're looking to sell and have come to the right place. What can I do for you?'

Judea wants: Come have dinner with me. Candles, a bottle of malbec, away from work. Then perhaps back to his. But what if, once he is inside her - chomp? Perhaps he has been speaking to the pretty ass end this whole time.

Judea points at the first thing that seems unlikely to snap at his finger: 'I want that one.'

'Uh, sure.'

She puts the thing in a hessian bag. Gaze 15° down, Judea leaves the rooftop marketplace. It is only when he has descended the ladder that he checks his purchase. It is a jar of dirt.