The shop assistant, whose bra is blatantly visible through her thin sweater, approaches me with a smile. “Can I help you?” “Do you have any large containers for liquids?” “We’re sold out.” “You don’t have a single one?” “They’ve been big sellers.” The shop assistant strokes her sweater over her belly, and her smile twitches. She is most certainly pregnant and fearful of everything: food poisoning, tanks, even me. “What are you planning to use the container for?” I glare at her with a look on my face that causes her to take a couple of side steps behind the counter and place her hand on the phone. “I’ll see what I can do. There might be some in the stockroom.” It starts to feel like I might as well leave. The shop assistant is still on the phone with the stockroom when a man in a dark suit and tie strides up behind me.
