I dropped the sacks of books on the floor as Grumpycute looked at me with terror in his bespectacled eyes. I mean, he usually regards everybody with a certain level of disdain, but this time his face was unmistakably full of horror. I started to make small talk ("Ha ha, how 'bout that Faulkner, eh?"), but Grumpycute just looked as though he'd rather be slathered with creamed corn than be anywhere near me. I decided to leave this strangely unfriendly place, and bent over to pick up the books. Then I realized my horrible, unintentional mistake. The weight of the messenger bag had tugged on my shirt, pulling all but three buttons open. Worse, I was wearing my only clean braa sheer number that had never seemed scandalous until the moment my breasts popped out to greet the patrons of Myopic Books. "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," I said to the reddening Grumpycute. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know. They just kind of got out somehow, it's this shirt, I knew it wasn't trustworthy ohmygodohmygod I didn't mean for you to see my boobs I'll put them away and will come back another time bye."