OCR Text |
Show The White Suit 54 Sara has never seen such a prize. Her canescent cat walks across the keyboard, stares into the white cracks, and i t s eyes contract. Pin-tip eyes. Li l i ed pointillism. I t ' s funny, in the white suit you'd think that Sara would be lady-like, all that cool pressed presence, the near whiteness. She wore white at her wedding, of course. Sara's mother hovered until Sara remembered to carry the white crepe train over her arm while she nibbled white cake with white frosting and white roses out of Don's hand. "Marry me," he had said. "Pledge to me, forever." "Oh forever, yes, of course." "A bride is always beautiful," everyone said, "and Sara is the perfect bride, the perfect lady." In white, Don and Sara held hands and smiled, even blushed. In white sheets they sanctified their holy calling of marriage. In white hospital gowns they held new babies and beamed. Sara wore white when she learned the correct backhand technique from the Yugoslavian tennis ace, when she learned to ski powder, and when she saw Don with his hand on the snow bunny's angoraed breast. And she rode in white upon a white horse, charging through the dappled sunlight down the country lane. The light from the sun blanched the Persia rug by the window where she sat and rocked after the riding was done. It |