Fingering through slender packets of panty hose, searching for size, colour, no-pinch waistband.
Never anyone of service in the intimates, only one grey employee marooned at the till, hooking
slim bra straps on clear plastic hangers or sorting fistfuls of thongs, three for $15. Hosiery, a
lonely island muzzled between furniture & appliances and long cotton nightgowns.

My first corporate job and I squeezed thighs into one lycra tube, then the other. I was told to
wear stockings, along with make-up and a suit. Bare legs a no-no, pants frowned upon.

I did what was asked of me, believed they knew better than a boho poet with a stainless-steel
mug I hefted to every morning meeting. A handmade hemp choker, festooned with rainbow fimo
beads, tied for good around my neck. Always damp from the shower, smelled like a dock line
puddled in the hull of a boat.

In the beginning, I didn’t shave, inch-long strands flattened all day under nylon and spandex. At
night, when I peeled free my shins and calves, a flush of ache, relief, trampled grass unfolding.
That lasted one winter, matted dark hairs under taupe, honey-beige, nude cross-hatched like
scribbles with a muddied felt pen.

My leg pelt sheared down the drain, disappeared like my wish for a nose piercing, hidden like
the tattoos from university, cut off like my hemp rope. Tacking back to the The Bay, buying rafts
of control top, semi-sheer, cotton blend gusset, reinforced toe.

In my purse, a bottle of clear nail polish to subdue any runs.