loquat, a bowl of which had magically appeared in the decorating flurry.
I had just spat my fifth loquat pit into a crystal bowl, when Kevin knocked on the suite door.
'Come in,' I yelled, feeling ashamed of myself, but too trapped in my own physical ugliness to grovel in front of Kevin for the sake of his ego needing to make a silk purse out of a side of bacon.
He was carrying a white tissue-wrapped package tied with lilac ribbon, and he handed it to me.
'I took the stuff out of the top,' he said, 'because you don't need it, and I'm sorry if it retains a bit of scent (here, he blushed) but I thought it could be a bit of something to wear this evening at dinner, and would maybe...'
And when I continued to look at him stupidly and irrelevantly, he stamped his foot. 'Oh, do try it on. Do. Do it for Kevin.'
Somehow, he managed to give me confidence in that tantrum, though I didn't think it was the real Kevin speaking. Maybe he could do something with this side of bacon.
He didn't do as I suggested: sit on the chesterfield to wait. He paced outside my closed bedroom door while I changed.
The package was heavy for its thickness. I unwrapped it on the bed. A top and a skirt, in diaphanous layers of what I guessed was silk chiffon, the smoky lilac of a bushfire dawn, beaded with seed pearls the colour of the moon. The pattern was teardrops.
All so delicate, yet so weighted, so rich.
I tore off my stinky rags and ran into the shower because it would have been a sin not to. After towelling myself, I tiptoed back to the bed. Why I tiptoed, I don't know.
They fitted as if made for me.
Kevin knocked, and I answered, 'Oh, Kevin.'
He knocked again, and I flung open the door.
The smell he had spoken of was the faint whiff of him. A pleasant aroma—healthy man plus sandalwood, tabac, and coriander. I knew my scents from the Higher Light, though theirs were like artificial vanilla to the scents the Restonians wore.
Superficially, Kevin didn't look at all like me. We were almost the same height, but he was curvy with a muscleman's curves, not mine.
'I did some adjustments,' he said.
The Restonia had a clothing repair service, I'd been told, but I had thought of them sending out to a wizened little tailor who was only too happy to sew a button at any hour . Kevin had to have been the needleman here. He wielded one mean needle, and worked quick as a tantrum.
The picture of Kevin as a bellydancer was too much a stretch of the imagination—and irrelevant now.
'Desirée ... Lily,' breathed Kevin, in a reverential whisper—not reverencing me, but his genius in knowing what was right, 'you make a perfect houri ... if you'd only stand up straight.'
He whacked me sharply between the shoulderblades, pushed his hands against my collarbones. He stood back, and tutted. 'Not good enough,' he pronounced, and marched into my bath.
He came out twirling a towel between his hands.
'You're not a kiwi bird!' Whack at the front of my thighs. 'Bum out!' Whack. 'Out more. Be proud of it ... Yahhs. That's my girl. Give a nice curve to that back and waist. Look at yourself in profile.'
I turned obediently. Snapping towels hurt.
'See that curve? Give it more. A proper seahorse of a curve.' Whack! 'Then give me an "S" if you don't know seahorses.'
How was I supposed to know seahorses? But I was getting the picture—a strange picture, not contemporary.
'Ehsss!' he hissed. 'Don't forget your shoulders ... There.' Whack! 'Back! Push them baaack!'
~
My posture lesson was painful for both of us, seeing as it had to overcome years of curling in on myself, and he wanted me at maximum unfurl. He was a martinet. I was happy he didn't have a stick, because my skin was covered in blushes by the time he was satisfied. And then I not only stood two inches taller, but had two places on my body where you could rest your mug of tea.
The pain was worth it. 'Your body was meant for another time,' Kevin said, 'But those times will come again ...
I had just spat my fifth loquat pit into a crystal bowl, when Kevin knocked on the suite door.
'Come in,' I yelled, feeling ashamed of myself, but too trapped in my own physical ugliness to grovel in front of Kevin for the sake of his ego needing to make a silk purse out of a side of bacon.
He was carrying a white tissue-wrapped package tied with lilac ribbon, and he handed it to me.
'I took the stuff out of the top,' he said, 'because you don't need it, and I'm sorry if it retains a bit of scent (here, he blushed) but I thought it could be a bit of something to wear this evening at dinner, and would maybe...'
And when I continued to look at him stupidly and irrelevantly, he stamped his foot. 'Oh, do try it on. Do. Do it for Kevin.'
Somehow, he managed to give me confidence in that tantrum, though I didn't think it was the real Kevin speaking. Maybe he could do something with this side of bacon.
He didn't do as I suggested: sit on the chesterfield to wait. He paced outside my closed bedroom door while I changed.
The package was heavy for its thickness. I unwrapped it on the bed. A top and a skirt, in diaphanous layers of what I guessed was silk chiffon, the smoky lilac of a bushfire dawn, beaded with seed pearls the colour of the moon. The pattern was teardrops.
All so delicate, yet so weighted, so rich.
I tore off my stinky rags and ran into the shower because it would have been a sin not to. After towelling myself, I tiptoed back to the bed. Why I tiptoed, I don't know.
They fitted as if made for me.
Kevin knocked, and I answered, 'Oh, Kevin.'
He knocked again, and I flung open the door.
The smell he had spoken of was the faint whiff of him. A pleasant aroma—healthy man plus sandalwood, tabac, and coriander. I knew my scents from the Higher Light, though theirs were like artificial vanilla to the scents the Restonians wore.
Superficially, Kevin didn't look at all like me. We were almost the same height, but he was curvy with a muscleman's curves, not mine.
'I did some adjustments,' he said.
The Restonia had a clothing repair service, I'd been told, but I had thought of them sending out to a wizened little tailor who was only too happy to sew a button at any hour . Kevin had to have been the needleman here. He wielded one mean needle, and worked quick as a tantrum.
The picture of Kevin as a bellydancer was too much a stretch of the imagination—and irrelevant now.
'Desirée ... Lily,' breathed Kevin, in a reverential whisper—not reverencing me, but his genius in knowing what was right, 'you make a perfect houri ... if you'd only stand up straight.'
He whacked me sharply between the shoulderblades, pushed his hands against my collarbones. He stood back, and tutted. 'Not good enough,' he pronounced, and marched into my bath.
He came out twirling a towel between his hands.
'You're not a kiwi bird!' Whack at the front of my thighs. 'Bum out!' Whack. 'Out more. Be proud of it ... Yahhs. That's my girl. Give a nice curve to that back and waist. Look at yourself in profile.'
I turned obediently. Snapping towels hurt.
'See that curve? Give it more. A proper seahorse of a curve.' Whack! 'Then give me an "S" if you don't know seahorses.'
How was I supposed to know seahorses? But I was getting the picture—a strange picture, not contemporary.
'Ehsss!' he hissed. 'Don't forget your shoulders ... There.' Whack! 'Back! Push them baaack!'
~
My posture lesson was painful for both of us, seeing as it had to overcome years of curling in on myself, and he wanted me at maximum unfurl. He was a martinet. I was happy he didn't have a stick, because my skin was covered in blushes by the time he was satisfied. And then I not only stood two inches taller, but had two places on my body where you could rest your mug of tea.
The pain was worth it. 'Your body was meant for another time,' Kevin said, 'But those times will come again ...
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