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Skin tight dresses, cuts inches above the knees. Any man could figure her figure even when she is fully clothed. Her make-up, thick – the surface of her face disguised in make-up, perhaps her unbruised lips beneath layers of red. Polished nails, and pony-tailed moussed hair – dark, a contrast to her nude or peach stockings. Her bagger, a dwarf of a man, when she is on her heels. Her pocket, money for six months. They call it contractual.

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On her hands, money she will never have if she didn’t dream big. Around her, the gleam of capitalism, the virtues of consumerism, the new world standard of materialism. Polished aisles, well-stocked shelves for every need. I received five hundred. This aisle only for express service, ten items below. SM Advantage Card? The poetry for the next half-year – the poetry that will make ends meet.

Ding ding ding. Attention dear shoppers, happy shopping.

Happy to serve.

Her make-up melted, her bagger, exhausted; soles and seams breaking, tearing – still a decent job even if she can’t join a union to protect her, even if she is at the fringes of globalization, at the mercy of another enterprise. At least, a job.

Happy to serve? Was she clapping and chanting for the customers, or for the CEOs?