The remnants of some erotic party that never quite got off the ground; an aborted orgy. We wander the aisles of some husk of a grocery store. It isn’t quite post-apocalyptic but the store has maybe a tenth of its usual inventory. Shelves are half-filled or empty, or half-dismantled, or half-smashed or burned, or else missing all together. We weave in and out of those aisles and non-aisles, the lights dimmed and flickering around us. We move evasively, trying not to be caught, not to be seen. We must escape, but not without what we came for. And when we reach the door, it’s a long and grueling sprint back up that ruined escalator.