I'm in a dorm. The hall walls are decorated with graffiti -- it looks like valentines, with lots of hearts. I'm wearing a formal dress. It's made of a shiny silver satin and comes down to my knees, poofing out like a poodle skirt. It is not totally zipped up, so my back is quite exposed. I'm borrowing it from Carrie. I tell her that I wish I could design my own dress. Swarthmore's big dance, the "Screw-Your-Roommate," is tonight. Our dates are graduates, and they came back to school to go to the dance with us; it's a double date. We are sitting in a lounge. I'm sitting on a couch. One of the guys is eating a whole pizza, all by himself. Someone asks me if I've ever met the owner of The Body Shop. No, I tell them. Suddenly a man is sitting on the back of the couch right behind me. (He looks exactly like Jim, who owns Senor Sam's.) He starts talking to me, telling me about what it's like to own such a big, world-wide business.
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