Z MB
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“The weight of Ann Taylor Loft Dscourse”
🧙🍺👨🏻🎤🧗
SE Portland hums around me—traffic lights and neon buzz. Skateboards clatter past on cracked concrete. I lean against the brick, cigarette glowing, headphones humming my chosen world. I take them down from my ears.
She’s talking—rambling, really—about all the corporate chains she loves at the mall. You know, any mall that somehow stands “thriving” at the end of the world. She tells me. I say “as if” in my head.
Cheesecake Factory, Sephora, Bath & Body Works like they’re constellations only she can see.
Her boyfriend arrives, all eagerness and inertia. She pivots, starts the whole litany over, same cadence, different audience. He nods along. I pull the headphones snug, tune out. The smoke curls upward, carrying my silence with it.
One cigarette later, I pull the headphones down. She hasn’t missed a beat. “Ann Taylor Loft,” she says, with reverence usually reserved for gods, or graves. He nods again, dutiful acolyte in the cult of chain retail.
And me? I’ve already passed the test. The mall won’t swallow me. The spiral won’t take me. I stub the cigarette, pocket my headphones, and step back into the night. Portland’s waiting—messy, loud, uncurated. The real story’s not in the mall.
She and I did connect over a recent gift to my goddaughter: a Clair’s gift card. The banter was unexpectedly sweet.
This place has a great patio, better bartenders, sidewalk seating, and plays Me First and the Gimmie Gimmies.