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Show The White Suit 5g Her mother came to v i s i t in her white car. She looked at the wilted Sara, sighed and proceeded to dust the only Chinese Chippendale chair with a lace handkerchief. "Remember who you are," she said, peering squarely into Sara's blue eyes. "Remember that you are a lady. You deserve the best. Demand i t and don't give up on white." She pressed a hundred dollar b i l l into Sara's hand as she said goodbye. "For Mrs. Stewart's Liquid Bluing and something to wear." On the day of the white sale, the snow f a l l s upward, away from the earth, sucked by a white mouth, wider than the sky. Multi-labial whiteness frames the horizons. The lady's gloved hand brushes slowly over cutwork cloths, white web doilies, a wok with pearl inlay and deckle-edged note paper. The white fingers stroke a bone-handled knife, the stainless blade. Overhead light shines on the alloy, reflecting white in the lady's eye at the white sale. She stops at a window where pulsing light bulbs frame a wide-screen television covered with white-on-white dots. Ghost football. No bad news. A white horse leaps over the flashing crossbar and gallops to the north end of the shopping mall. Sara's new suit is not stark white, but an off, sort of ivory. The jacket has two cloth buttons, a softly tailored waist and wide lapels. |