Jim

Jim pawed nervously at the hem of his coat, fiddling around for the watch he’d misplaced the night before. Before him loomed the stretching form of The First Store, on first and 9th. He gulped quietly, shifted his cloak around him and walked in. A brief wash of cooled antiseptic air later and he was inside: marble veneer and yellow-orange lights everywhere washing over decapitated mannequins in awkward poses. One particularly awkward pose caught his attention halfway down the escalator. He twisted his neck trying to look at it too long. He arrived at Diamantine’s; his neck twisted and his mind still invested in the strange contortionist mannequin, he paused right outside the door.

The interior was rich, ornate: a thick velvety purple ran all along the walls and floors imbueing the space with a regal, romaneque quality providing a pleasant contrast with the waistcotted black-and-white workers who milled behind the glass cases, pointing out favorable ornaments to rich, luxuriant customers. Jim spyed a woman in what appeared to be a mink coat and adjusted the coat even tighter around him, concealing even further his T-shirt and jeans.

Writer's note -

I am making the horrible mistake of leaving story fragments in here.

Deepest apologies to all readers. Gots to suck.