Now I can add the one person I never expected to meet in the Target sock section at 7.30 pm on a Thursday night (with a farting child in tow,
a startled vole expression on my face and — perhaps worst of all — leggings as pants) to the list.
Tiptoeing shyly further into the space, you clutch the traditional cotton cloth peştamal to your chest like
a startled vole when, emerging from the fog, a bare - breasted masseur looms into view.