Ok, you have to go way way way back and read part one of this puppy, and read the comments below that entry, too, to find out how to pronounce Cem.
The Great Disneyland EU Debate - Part Two
I wore a black and white patterned cocktail dress I bought five hours earlier at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. I found it on the bargain rack between a purple stretch tube dress and a frayed Hawaiian muumuu, and I held it against my body in the harsh fractal light of the store and grinned. A silk party dress! In my size! And only one buck! The pattern ebbed and flowed around the tight bodice and flooded into a flare of fabric below the waist. I marched to the counter and handed it to a lumpy cashier in an orange wool turtleneck. She held it off to the side and turned it around and around.
"Are you going to wear this in public, or is this some kind of costume?" She chewed gum as she spoke, and I could smell spearmint mixed with cigarettes. She wore an ash blonde page-boy wig, and small tufts of white hair peeked out along her forehead. Age spots fanned across her face as if someone squirted her with a fern mister filled with gray paint.
"I have to go to a coffee company party tonight. It's kinda cafe au lait, don't you think?" I opened my purse and pulled out a dollar and eight cents and slapped it on the counter, grabbed the dress and waved goodbye.
There's nothing wrong with this dress, I thought. It's the right size and it's a party dress. Plus it's silk. Silk! What's the matter with that lady? But when I tugged the side zipper and stepped in front of the cheap full length mirror tacked to my bedroom door I saw what that orange turtle lady saw. The chessboard pattern sprayed into and across my breasts, accenting them in a strange hypnotic manner, almost giving the illusion that they were rotating, winking, inviting a caress or at least a good conversation. I slipped on shiny patent leather red heels and tossed my daughter's black lace shawl over my shoulders, trying to tie it over my breasts in a festive bow.
I unwrapped the white tissue paper from my new Avon Kenneth Lane black velvet party purse and filled it with as many Avon brochures and samples and business cards as I could. I slung it over one arm and sat facing the window, waiting for Ulak, waiting and wondering why I agreed to attend this holiday party. Aw darn him and his bushy eyebrows and dark coptic expression. Aw darn him. I don't want to be a party date and pretend I know the ins and outs of Turkish coffee. I tried not to think about Ulak's mother. He drove up a few minutes later, and I headed out the door.
Ulak drove the dark family car instead of his customary SUV. He stepped around the front and opened the shotgun door for me with a heavy chink of expensive metal. I saw his mother and brother, Cem, through the tinted windows and felt a pang of anxiety in my stomach. I caught Ulak staring at my chest as I dipped into the car but he didn't avert his eyes.
"You look nice." He continued staring. "Your dress is as beautiful as the mosaic tiles in the Aslanhane Mosque at Ankara." He paused in thought. "Except the tiles there don't have such a dizzying effect."
To Be Continued....
5:34:08 PM 
|
