Whoever owned the Purse Suit of Fashion had played up the building's theater origins. Old movie seats dot the converted lobby in twos and threes, and movie posters from every twee '90s indie movie line the walls. The concession stand on the left wall was turned into the checkout counter, far enough from the doors that you wonder if the store owners had trouble with shoplifting.
In the dim light that filters through the butcher paper lining the front windows, the old clothing racks look like skeletonized umbrellas. The carpet is thin enough that it does little to deaden Hayden's stompy boots, and puffs of dust rise up with every footfall.
"Isn't she a beaut?" Hayden winks at you.