He listened to the sounds behind the door: a zipper, silken legs gliding against each other, a tussle, shoes falling to the floor. Then silence.
K knew the poses she struck in front of the mirror whenever she tried something on–hips tilted, collarbones broadened, eyes carefully mixed with self-assurance and self-criticism. If she approved of what she saw she opened the door, twirled, and closed it. If she didn’t, she did not. It was sort of theatrical–at rise, performance, curtain.
She opened the door and smiled at K. She closed the door. Sounds and silence.
She opened the door and smiled at K. She closed the door. Sounds and silence.
She opened the door and smiled at K. She closed the door. Sounds and silence.
A performance in three acts.
(Intellectuals trash these moments by reducing them to the empty gestures of a populace that has gone blind in one eye. The fall of old ideologies and belief systems has precipitated a preference for a grab-bag of artificial and interchangeable identities…or something.)
When she came out of the dressing room she handed K the garments she wanted.
He pulled her in close and whispered Bravo. He kissed her. She blushed.
Curtain.
Leave a Reply