She is wearing a crumpled blue blouse, which the blood seeps through heavy and dark, in long straight lines running diagonally down her back. She spots a gap in the crowd and is carried away, not a single customer pays her any attention. The shop vomits the two of them out and they go, ambling away past the windows and into the night while I sit in the rectum and stare at the customer in front of me. The blood from the girl has rubbed off on his shirt, second-hand stains printed diagonally across his stomach. I point and he shrugs.