She was hooked as soon as she had brushed it against her skin. The fabric folded softly against her, outlining the shape of all the muscles below. She must own this dress, perfectly cut as it was, the deep emerald green catching the light, reflecting the colour of her eyes. It would go with her red patent leather stiletto heels perfectly. It was like it had been made for her, and only for her. She examines the man in the booth, sees the lines on his face, the lines of a life lived hard on the edges of society, marginalised and ostracised by his addiction to perfection. She realises he could never catch her, so she turns. And she runs.