There is no line. There are only a few straggled patrons, bedraggled and posed like mannequins. They hold shopping bags and soiled receipts in their hands as if to say, May I return this? Their legs jut at unfortunate angles and the whole floor tastes like burnt cash registers. I clutch the origami paper bag against my chest like a pacemaker, the paisley inspector pants folded up inside with all the tags and all the necessary paperwork. I know exactly how much the pants cost my dear, departed auntie, how much she must have toiled to afford them for Christmas. It's too bad that I'm a bad niece. It's too bad that I'm not one of the nice girls. It's really too bad. It's really too bad. She worked so hard to buy me this gift, to buy everybody in the family unconsidered presents, and then she died right there on Boxing Day. Right into her rum-soaked fruitcake. She was the only one in the family who could stand the taste or dare I say the smell of a fruitcake. But I just can't wear paisley! It's true. I just can't do it. And why did she think I wanted inspector pants? They ride up too much at the back and the pleats! Pleats. Have I ever worn pleats in my life? Is it any wonder I pirouette between poised patrons to return this awful, thoughtless indulgence? I could better use the money for a pair of shoes.