Two women walk into a store

One woman, who I'll call Sidekick, sniffed soap.
The other, who I will call Spanky, asked if we have a bathroom.
“No,” my coworker answered, even though we have an employee restroom. We don’t like it when other people use it: we don’t poop at their workplaces.
“That’s okay I’ll just do it here.”
Time stood still while Spanky took off her jeans ignoring the customers and window looking out at the street packed with shoppers. I got an eyeful of taupe bloomers, turkey neck thighs, varicose veins and tall black socks. Sidekick was the only person not staring open-mouthed as Spanky slipped on the world’s ugliest pants. They looked like Kiki, my patchwork baby blanket, was captured and sewn into pleated pants tucked into camel toe and seven-inch cuffs.
Now Spanky turned to me and asked, “What do you think of these pants?”
I tried to clear my mind in case this woman practiced Occlumency. But I couldn’t shake image of Kiki being hunted by a delusional seamstress on the farm my parents took her to.
I answered, “They’d look better hemmed.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But please be honest, I may buy them off a woman on the street?”
Honestly, unless Nanette Lapore is having a garage sale, you don’t buy pants off a woman on the street.
“Well then,” I scrambled for a polite answer, “I don’t know what you’d wear them with.” A paper sack?
“Okay I’ll take them back.” Then Spanky dropped hideous trou again. This time I got the front view of years of neglect. She slipped her jeans and Birkenstocks back on and said “goodbye” to Sidekick.
Sidekick chose a couple bars of lavender soap and headed to the register. She said nothing of her friend flashing her crotch to the whole store.
When Spanky returned, Sidekick presented her with a bar of the soap as a gift.
“Keep it,” Spanky said, pushing the soap back to Sidekick. “Call me weird, but I like cheap soap.”
Yeah, that makes you weird.