Then I froze as I got abreast to my couch and saw the plethora of glossy bags on it.
Incidentally, my couch was awesome. It was flower print, girlie but it was a cool print and since it was the only thing in the room that was flowery, it worked (even though the rest was pretty girlie). As usual, I bought it on sale and since it had a small rip in one of the cushions, the price was seriously reduced. But I just flipped it over and, voila! Perfect couch.
And right then, it was even more perfect when I saw the names on the bags that were on my couch.
My shoulder slumped, so deep, my bag fell right to the floor. Then I hustled to the couch, dropped my keys on my vintage, oval, white, awesomely chipped, quirky coffee table (that yes, was totally girlie) I bought for three dollars at a yard sale and reached into the first bag.
I pulled out an expertly tissue wrapped parcel, carefully tore the tissue away and shook out a black dress, it’s fabric so far away from polyester or any synthetic fiber it was… not… funny.
It felt like what I thought heaven would feel like.
When I held it up I saw it looked like what an angel would wear too, if she had her own personal Italian designer, showed serious skin, wore black and not white and had whopping, mega style.
Holding it to me, I smoothed it down my front as I felt my nose start to sting.
I’d never seen anything so exquisite, touched it, held it and certainly never, ever owned it.
Then I carefully laid it out across the back of the couch and went back to the bag.
Dress two, a metallic platinum. Sublime.
Dress three, red. Flawless. Awe-inspiring.
After smoothing the red out on the couch, I went to the next bag.
Shoes. Three pairs. All high heels. All sandals. One pair black. One platinum. One red. The prices on the labels on the sides were not torn off or marked out and the least expensive pair was seven hundred and fifty dollars.
My heart, beating hard, started racing.
Next bag, three exquisite evening clutches. Red sequins. Black jet beads. Champagne satin.
Next bag, this one smaller, a bunch of little boxes. One, a collection of thin bangles, all set with tiny red beads. Another, earrings that matched the bangles, long threads of red beads mixed with long threads of thin silver links. Another, a twisting choker of strings and strings of jet beads. Another, matching earrings that were a burst of the same. Another, a wide bracelet with an intricate, heavy, complicated clasp that was part of the adornment off of which were strung dozens upon dozens of tangled champagne, seed pearls. The last, earrings of the same, so long, when I held them up to my ear, they brushed my shoulders.
And finally, at the bottom of the dress bag, a business card sized card with Knight’s black slashes, ordering:
A, Saturday, pick one. K
Pick one.
Pick one.
Nose still stinging, I stared at my couch and coffee table over which was strewn a cornucopia of feminine delights as delivered by my awesome, protective, scary new boyfriend who hadn’t even kissed me yet.
Then, stiltedly, I walked to my purse on the floor, bent, grabbed it and equally stiltedly walked back to my couch as I dug out my phone. Once my fingers curled around my extortionately expensive phone, I dumped my cheap (but cute) purse next to the expensive new “shit” Knight had delivered to me. Then I bent my head and hit buttons.
Then I put the phone to my ear.
Knight’s smooth, deep voice said in my ear, “Sebring, leave a message.”
And the message I left was a soft, trembling, “Honey, you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Then, feeling stupid, scared, elated, mystified and anxious not only that this felt so good, often times right, many times terrifying, sometimes confusing but also anxious that he’d given me so much, no matter what it was, that I wouldn’t live up to the promise he saw in me, I beeped the button to disconnect and stared at my booty.
Then I sucked in breath and carefully, reverently put my stash away in my bedroom before I made a quick sandwich, ate it and set up for my client at my cute, chipped, white-painted, quirky dinette that a friend gave me when she moved in with her man and he declared he would not sit his ass at that dinette.
* * * * *
I was riding an elephant. It was white, its trunk up and trumpeting.
I was in my new red dress, shoes and bangles and I was giggling.
And somewhere my cell phone was ringing.
* * * * *
My eyes opened and I saw dark. I heard my cell stop ringing and I blinked at my alarm clock.
It was twelve thirteen.
Then I heard the call up buzzer sound in my living room.
What on earth?
I threw back my new, down comforter with its subtle, soft, flowery pattern (okay, so I had more flowers but they were in another room so that was acceptable). Part sleepy, definitely groggy I dashed in my baby blue with tiny pink polka dots drawstring, pajama short-shorts and my baby pink shelf bra camisole into the living room.