On the way to Liana’s. I need two hundred
dollars for this month’s
lessons. But I’ll tell Mom the money is for
a haircut and some new clothes. Last year’s
sweaters are dated.
If I say that, she won’t even think twice.
Perception is everything to Mom, and style
is a vital component.
She wants her son to be a fashion trendsetter.
Three p.m. on Wednesday, her regular day
for pre-op consults,
her office is humming. “Hello, Simone,”
I say to her receptionist, eliciting her
smile with my own.
“Will my mother be tied up very long?”
She’s with a patient, but should be
finished soon. Take
a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.
She scuttles off, and I turn toward
the plush waiting
room. A girl, seated in one of the cushy
chairs, lifts her eyes up over a magazine.
Damn! She’s a spectacular
creation, the kind you’d like to paint
a portrait of, so you could hang her on
a wall and stare at her
forever. And speaking of staring, she is
staring at me, so I’m motivated to say
hello, only it comes out,
“H-he-hello.” She smiles at the stupid
stutter, and I can’t help but notice
the perfect shape
of her plump little pout. Delicious.
Hello back at you, she says, her voice
rich and sweet as
caramel, and all the invitation I need.