![]() Zoe had been instructed to sit in the window and look pretty to attract foot traffic, which suited her inner exhibitionist well. ![]() The clothing sold there catered to the tastes of a particular type of West Village woman, one both wealthy and vaguely bohemian, who worked as…Well, Zoe wasn’t quite sure, but in some career path that meant she was free to shop during the weekday. It was a tiny velvet box of a store, owned by a stylist with family money and a fairly obvious drug problem whom Zoe had lent a tampon to at an after-party (she’d used the applicator as a coke straw). ![]() Until that week, she had been making ends meet on her income as the sole employee of a women’s boutique on Christopher Street. She had agreed solely because the class was free, which meant it was the only thing she could afford to do that night. Zoe had been persuaded to come by her roommate, Tali, who had hair the color of Windex spray and said things like your pussy is your power. ![]() The Climaxing to Consciousness group met every Friday in a hot yoga studio on Canal Street above a store advertising ten-dollar aura readings. Photo-Illustration: The Cut Photos: Getty ![]()
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