"Yeah," I said. "I'm looking for foam."
"Foam? What kind of foam?"
"Um, foam. Foam that you use to make pillows," I explained.
He told me that they didn't sell foam, but there was a place in nearby Conway that did. "They'll cut it to the exact size you want."
Then he asked the question I was dreading.
"What are you going to use it for?"
"You don't want to know," I said.
"You really don't want to know," I repeated.
He raised an eyebrow and started to walk away.
"Okay I'll tell you," I said. "It's a prop for a play. I'm making boob prostheses for a woman who just had a mammogram."
He stopped for a minute. Then continued on his way to the back of the store.
"But they have to be rectangular," I said more loudly. Because he really needed to hear this.
"Cuz she just had a mammogram," I sad loudly.
"And both her boobs are squished into rectangles."
He shook his head.
"That sounds hysterical," said the woman who was standing nearby. (The one with a sense of humor.)
Who, clearly, had experienced more than her share of Mammograms.
