Saturday, January 7, 2017

That Little Encounter in Black

I don’t know about you but maybe you’ve had the same experience. It was like landing in Absolutely Fabulous.  I suppose I had gate crashed but maybe you can’t gate crash if the gate hasn’t been set up.

“You’re early.”

I looked at the immaculate buffet spread, and the two young women in black.  I remember their eyes appeared clad in black as well. It was as if they were saying, “We are black like crows. We can’t make the runway because we don’t have the right junk anywhere on the vehicle so we are black as crows and that’s our excuse to cross the room.” I ignored the statement and asked them about their mission in the shop. That was why I was there anyways, sent on an errand for an organization to see if we could provide volunteers for a good cause. 

An elegant woman rushed from the back of the store towards me and exclaimed, “I didn’t even get my make-up on.”  She was the type of person you like immediately even though she started in burbling her media statements about the ethical fashion line she’d started, instantaneously confiding her age to me. “I am forty-six.” She looked a lovely forty-six without make-up. I suspected she was younger and this was a little game.  She indicated to a woman loitering nearby, another being in black. “She’ll do my make-up.”

“Is she any good?” I asked, having glanced over the example.

The entrepreneur didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes ever so slightly.

You'd never guess it, but she was wearing all black. “Do you know who made your clothes?”  She was persisting in her spiel. I didn’t need to hear the spiel. I was standing in a recycled coat, not much black to be seen.  The entrepreneur looked me over.  That’s right I followed her eyes.  Let alone who made the garments I had no idea who had worn my clothes earlier in time and I didn’t really care. My lifestyle is based on the grand theory of recycling.

I inspected the near invisible retail items in the shop. We ate some popcorn out of an extremely attractive cone together waiting for other guests.  The calories accepted by her nimble fingers. “You can maybe help out with the upcoming events for our line of bags. They are made by the women in prison down in Naples.”  She meant Italy and not Florida. I didn’t mention any association about Bush and the American industry run out of prisons all over the USA, because this was different, this was for a cause in support of women who have experienced domestic violence. Still the word exploitation hovered near my lips.

Guests arrived. Her assistant talked to me. “I am thirty-one.” She stated looking too young to wear so much severe black, “But everyone thinks I am younger.” I concentrated on examining the photo shoot in Vogue Magazine using the shop’s fashion accessories.

The entrepreneur rushed from the back store room into the miniscule shop towards her more acceptable guests, her faced mummified in pancake.

That was my cue to go out into the night and catch a train elsewhere.

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