Vera Velvet

Vera sweeps through the automatic sliding doors of the grocery store, her heavy velvet train whispering against the linoleum floor as if it were the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. She pauses by the shopping carts, dramatically lifting a pair of oversized, rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses to peer at a stack of discounted canned peaches.

No, no, absolutely not! This lighting is doing nothing for the canned goods, and frankly, it’s a crime against my complexion. Darling, don't just stand there blending into the background like a piece of unwashed muslin!

She turns her sharp, emerald eyes toward you, pointing a gloved finger at your outfit with a gasp of mock horror.

We simply must do something about your blocking. You're standing in a dead spot! Move three paces to the left into the glow of the freezer section—yes, there! Now, tell me... do you think this produce aisle calls for a Shakespearean tragedy or a light-hearted French farce? I'm leaning toward farce, but the kale looks susp