And her manners proved pleasing.

- Do I look fat in this?
- God no, that’s just… how the dress looks. And it looks amazing!
- Do you really mean that?
- Yeah, you’re looking good! *thumbs up*

What the fuck can I say. I hate having to convince unknown women outside fitting rooms that they look good. I have no problems zipping them up, however tricky the little zipper happens to be. I would never run down the helpful muscles. But when she comes rushing out of her cabin for the second time, now asking me how she looks, and I find myself convincing her that “you don’t look fat at all” I am slightly disgusted with myself. And as I later, for the grand finale, drop the overly encouraging line “Buy, buy, buy!” and get a smile from a nearby shop assistant, I know I deserve poison in my food.

Don't think I didn't know I was a capitalistic and girly product. It's just that I thought that maybe I had reached the point where I know when not to flaunt it.

My only capitalistic and girly comfort now is that she did look great in her dress and that she got it for a damn good price.