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Show floating on the ice, the only splash of color in the room; I run the toothpick between finger and thumb, twirling the umbrella like a top, watching the colors blur and meld. Later, at home, I will open and close it until the balsawood ribs finally break, puncturing the yellow paper. There is something mildly illicit about the Pearl City Tavern. Perhaps it is the darkness, the light bulbs concealed by thick slabs of orange and red glass and emitting a watery glow; perhaps it is the waitresses who are dressed in short skirts and whose faces are as worn as the leather in the booths; perhaps it is only the projections of a twelve-year- old girl with a bright imagination who is used to eating at McDonald's and is overwhelmed by a menu so tall that it bends in half when she opens it. Whatever the reason, in the warm, damp, darkness of the restaurant, sitting in a booth across from her father, her feet unable to touch the ground, she worries that she will be mistaken for her ( | father's mistress. The fear-after all, who eats lunch in the dark unless they don't want to be seen-begins to dominate the memory she is already composing about this day. That is, until the fashion show starts,-shattering the business of men eating. Surprised, we turn our heads in the direction of a stage that stretches like a lawn across the front of the restaurant. I am unprepared for the carnival of color that enters with the women: reds, blues, and screaming yellows. The models move about the room, in between the tables and booths, dressed in outfits sold at stores in the mall. Dangling from sleeves and hems, price tags flitter after them, hurrying to catch up. Writing now, over twenty years later, I cannot imagine why there was a fashion show in a mall restaurant in the middle of the day for an audience of bankers, insurance salesmen, and a father and his daughter. My memory feels murky like the lighting. But I |