Unscrewed
“—Sister Celeste, during her retirement speech GOOD MORNING-TIDE, Sensei.” It was neither Elaine’s garbled twist of Middle English and Japanese nor her husky accent that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was her ensemble. “Is that…alpaca?” I asked. I had seen her only a few hours before, during our run, and wasn’t quite prepared for the metamorphosis.
She glanced down at herself. Some kind of multicolored fur covered her chest…almost. Below that her midriff was bare. Taut with muscle the color of clover honey, it swept in a shallow valley down to a silk wraparound skirt.
“I got a callback,” she said.
“No kidding? For Xena.” “Amazon queen.” “That’s fantastic. When do you go in?” “This afternoon. I’m crazy nervous.” “Nervous! Don’t be ridiculous. One look at you in that”—I motioned to her chest—“dead thing, and they’ll be handing over their babies wrapped in movie contracts.” “You think?” I tossed my purse onto a chair and gave her another once-over.
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