A Trophy Wife

You walk around the store, until you're convinved that you've found the hottest woman in it. She's tall, probably five foot ten, somewhere in her early thirties, with curly red hair and a round face. She has a very nice hourglass-shaped body, trim waist and well endowed. She's wearing very nice clothing, a silk blouse and slacks, accompanied with nice jewelry: a bracelet, diamond earrings, a pearl necklace. She really is stunningly attractive, and you can only imagine that she's a trophy wife. If she's not, then she just happens to be the richest, most successful, and attractive woman you've ever seen, if she's shopping her, and wearing what she is. You name her "Trophy" in your head.

You walk up to her, and ask if you can be of any assistance. She looks briefly at you, and says, "Well, yes, actually." She holds up a shirt she is looking at. "Do you have any this size, in red?" You look at it. "I'll check," you say. "Good," she replies. "Bring it to me in the dressing rooms." She picks up some other clothes she has with her, and walks over to the dressing rooms.

You walk over to an out of the way corner. You have no idea where the shirts are kept, but you woke up this morning with seemingly supernatural abilities. You stare at the shirt, wishing for it to be red instead, and voila, you are holding a red shirt in your hands. You walk over to the dressing room area.