Skirting the Grave
“—WOODY ALLEN, GETTING EVEN, 1973 Eve Meyers, my BFF, a gothic fashionista with a steampunk edge, tall in her black and brass Lindi Buckle Leather Booties, invaded my vintage dress shop with mischief aforethought. “Madeira? Did you ever tell Nick about that thermonuclear kiss you shared with Werner the night you and the detective slept together?” Even though we were alone right now, I grew warm in my fifties Lilli Ann flared-sleeved, cinch-waisted, pencil-skirted suit. I’d purchased it at a miracle of a bargain, though a rabid collector would pay a grand for the set. You had to love the goods you sold, which I aced, but right now, I wasn’t loving my BFF too darn much. Eve knew she’d hit home when she turned to face my beverage buffet. “Caffeine. Gotta have more caffeine. My morning fix has left the building.” She chose a zinger of a caramel tea as black and powerful as her outfit. From the back, her long, straight hennaed hair spilled over the stand-up collar of her cotton point textur...ed faille jacket, same fabric as her skintight cropped pants.MoreLess
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