Kevin O'Cuinn

She slips the shirt over a hanger, notices the label for the first time: FABRIQUE AU MACAO. They'd bought it in a shop off the market. He'd tried to impress with his school French, assumed that they had school French, too. The owner handed him a calculator, they passed it back and forth. The owner's daughter had served her tea. He said, C'est beaucoup, four times before they agreed. She'd counted; shakes her head at the memory. She closes the top button and walks to the wardrobe.