The hunt

I’m not much for shopping. It’s not something that tickles me in the way that it seems to tickle most women. I don’t experience any sort of sexual pleasure from it. I know nothing of fashion and I quite prefer it that way. Only when it’s absolutely necessary – as in, when I haven’t bought any new clothes for, say, four years – will I even consider going on a shopping trip to town. But today was different. A female associate of mine somehow managed to pressure me into going to town with her to buy new clothes for me. Her reasoning was that I ‘look like a homeless person’. I don’t know about that. I’d like to think my look is avant-garde. Anyway.

Me and Malin are walking in town. She spots an interesting store, utters a short ‘o’-sound and scurries off inside with me walking five feet behind. Malin is walking around, carefully examinating each fabric by letting her soft hands glide over them, like general Maximus gently lets his hands stroke the high grass. I immediately scan my surroundings for the armchair. Where is the armchair? I find the armchair and park myself on it. Fiddle with my phone. Read old messages. Send a new one. Look at the floor. Look at the ceiling. Recite the 30 first numbers of pi over and over and over. Then suddenly Malin is standing before me, proudly showing off a dress she found in the deepest corner of the store and asks ‘What do you think?’. I really don’t know what I think of it. She has a, let’s say ‘interesting’ taste in clothing. I can’t quite decide if it’s high fashion or crap. It is beyond my understanding of fashion; something that just isn’t for me to grasp. ‘Yeah, it’s nice’ I answer. She runs off to the counter to pay for it and then we’re back on the streets.

Malin discovers yet another interesting store, utters a short ‘o’-sound and right there and then it begins anew. The hunt for the armchair. This process goes on to repeat itself five or six times before I decide to call it a day and start heading back home, with considerably less items purchased than Malin.