"Hi," she said, a groovy smile coming to her curious yet clueless face.

"Hi," he said. She was the first real woman he'd seen in weeks, as if he had imprisoned himself in his own work environment, giving himself a life-long sentence of complacency with no context to operate in.

"Who are you?" he asked her.

"I'm Cynthia Kitchen," she said, shuffling the bag of groceries she was carrying in her arms. She then got real mellow-dramatic on him: "I'm a preprogrammed sex-machine Made in the USA. Teenage In-Tell sex-dream no questions asked. The great big ball of nothingness waiting to be tainted with the stylus of experience. Know of any role I might wanna play in your GRAMMATRON movie?"