Post by gia brigitte carangi on Oct 11, 2010 20:20:08 GMT -5
She stared dubiously at the innocent animal hanging from the rack in front of her, her fingers telling quite a different story as they glimmered over it then what her eyes were seeing. Probably two or three mongolian lambs (or so the persistent sales lady continued to whisper in her ear, although she'd seen lamb's fur and it looked a lot less like dog, and a lot less threatening) had been shorn, their fur woven seamlessly into a tri-colored, quite heinous, vest. She didn't enjoy having personal shoppers for this exact reason, but she found herself grasping for hints of the old times and attempting to conceal the slightly protruding bump, her pregnancy becoming obvious now as she looked into the mirror and saw a chubbier face staring back at her. In the old times, she would have picked it up and slipped it on without a concern in the world, only because it was warm and she was cold. In the old times, she lived day to day based on momentary satisfactions and now all she could think about was what color of periwinkle t paint the nursery and what hints of lilac would go best with what shades of cornflower blue. Brushing her hand back over the fur, she glanced at the sales assistant once more, hoping for some kind of assurance or at least vague interest, but the girl had gone and she was left standing in front of Sparky, limply dangling from the chestnut clothes hanger like he'd been forgotten by some college-bound student. Another version of Andy, leaving behind his toys. So she frowned, disbelief at her urges striking her once more as she folded the vest over her slender arm and proceeded towards the register, where she would swipe the familiar black plastic and all would be aligned for only a moment. Before, of course, she broke the news that she was wearing a six hundred dollar dog fur vest to the public. But she could only see Charlie as she slipped it on over her still-willowy frame, directly on top of the black t-shirt. True, she had a personal shopper, but she neither set dates for shopping at stores or bothered to arrive with regularity, and thus on the urge to buy something she frequently showed her face and selections based on her previous acquisitions were lined in the velvet dressing rooms; today was no different. Having been struck by a late october breeze, she had made her way to the nearest department store and easily found something that would suit her momentary needs. Growing sick of leggings, she'd progressed to cigarette pants and it simply wasn't enough to keep her warm during her prolonged evening walks. Tonight, however, was different.
For tonight, as usual, was their typical weekly casual dinner affair at the restaurant of alternating choice; tonight was hers, and she'd picked none other then the spot she'd been frequenting as of late, and as of absolutely no coincidence. Or so she continuously told herself. Also as of late, where she usually found herself punctual and accurate, had been a late streak that she supposed stemmed from her stressors and perhaps the hormonal change as well. Being entirely inexperienced in that department, Gia wasn't sure which way was up as far as that was concerned, and she also wasn't particularly worried over the inconvenience of complete disorientation. So, as per usual (but only lately), she set off for the restaurant a good fifteen minutes late, but at least she was covered and warmed on the duration of her walk from the store, down and around the corner. While most insisted to be driven, Gia had always preferred to walk, even in the stilettos she now wore and would always wear. Although she was tall, she had insecurities concerning her thighs and thus the aide of stilettos was nothing short of a requirement for exiting the house; she sometimes considered herself a latter day Mariah Carey, and had taken to the idea of exercising in them to support her high arches should she ever get the chance to exercise again. While the obstetrician's manual to pregnancy had suggested it, the doctor himself had forbade it in her delicate state and most exertion, from that point onward, was exempted from her tentative nature. She had no means for argument and thus, while her stomach grew, she was preoccupied of her thighs to the same tendency.
The smell of sweat and fried food assaulted her nose as she pulled open the door to Perry's, familiar with the lack of a hostess to the point of searching the room for her husband, and upon falling short of the mission, simply seating herself, fingers drumming restlessly on the table. A platinum band, plain and simple, encircled her finger, no stone, and shone in the dimly lit sports bar. As pathetic as it was, Perry's brought her to a time when simplicity was everything and she sat playing the piano for entire days at a time; when she could happily spend hour after hour thrumming away at beautiful ivory keys on a piano too old to mention, for it might grow offended like the matronly woman at the end of the bar. It took her home to the smell of okra in the pan in the morning and corn for dinner, back to texas where everything was bigger and home to the ceramic tile floors of their dingy, five total room house in Baytown. And she'd never let him see more of her then she told him; that much was for certain. So she waited patiently, no explanation for her home away from home, simply an expectant smile on her face and an interested finger tip circling what appeared to be dried beer, but at Perry's you could truly never know.
