She was a summer girl, ambling through the mazes, the clatter of plastic hangers and low-hanging blouses, everything different enough to be different but the same. Last year’s colors, or the year before, faded, bruised and repaired with soap and stitches and the smeared drift of magazine perfume. Novelty T’s and rhinestoned skirts for that country girl look, ragged gypsy blouses, semi-transparent for the middle-aged trailer moms on the go. Piled denim on wobbly tables, desperately faded, hills and valleys of blue, blue youth, blue discomposure, the petites and the plus-sizes cohabiting as if it didn’t matter. Colors, so many colors, but blurred and watery, filmy as laundry water, all marked-down, dollar-day-discounted. She sorted through the pillars of denim, and a fat woman with Big Mac hands and a rumpled frown elbowed her to pluck the last pair of skinny jeans from her hands. But there were still plenty of summer skirts, and so she moved on, feeling like a plundered summer dream.