The designer burst from a curtained cubicle. "Rosa! Thank God. I need a jockstrap right now!"
         "I'm not carrying one on me."
         "There's a box of them downstairs in the costume store. Quick as you can."
         It was on a shelf at the back of the room, so I had to plunge in amongst eerily swaying polythene bags. I don't know which caught my attention first, the label or an almost instantaneous recognition of the weather-beaten leather flying jacket, boots, black sweater and jeans inside the bag. I turned the label towards the light and read 'Paul Allum/Matthew Cave - Nomansland'. I clutched at the polythene, straining to see, the garments blurred as if underwater. I drank them in, extracting Paul's essence, preserved in a plastic vacuum. I wanted to open the bag and smell the clothes, put them on so that what had touched him in the past, would touch me in the present. He was so close, so close.
         But I was on an emergency mission. I would have to come back later. 
         "Here you are," I said, "a tasty selection. I'm not convinced they're clean."
         The designer grabbed at the box like a crazed man. "I've no time for niceties. My man's whiffy anyway."
         When I returned to the room the next day I couldn't find Paul's bag. I struggled up and down, buffeted on both sides, until I was exhausted. The bag's disappearance made the incident sit uncomfortably with me, giving it the formless, elusive quality of a dream.