![]() I turned back around to face her crotch-a tender triangle swollen and divided by the thick protuberance of her zipper fly, thick thighs pulling at the weave of the red wool. She told me she had reupholstered the chaise in leather from an old armchair she’d stripped on the side of the road. Mother-of-pearl would look chintzy, I think, with this shade of leather.” I could only clear my throat and nod. “But I like it without the mother-of-pearl. Only that panel has the inlay missing.” She pointed. “King Edward, home on the range” is the first thing I ever heard her say. I took out my cell phone and pressed some buttons, pretending that I wasn’t staring at the girl. I lay down like a patient in analysis, then sat up again. I pushed at the springs with the palms of my hands. While she was busy with customers, I sat on a chaise longue for sale and pretended to be fascinated. It was that look of revulsion that awoke something in me. Her face was pinched, as though she’d just smelled someone farting. Her hair was frizzy, bleached blonde, and she had a lot of makeup on-too much, I’d say. She wore tight red trousers and a black shirt that looked like the top of a ballerina’s leotard. This was 2006, and she was selling refurbished antique furniture, which she’d placed around her taped-off space like someone’s fancy living room. I met her two days before Christmas at a holiday pop-up market on the Lower East Side. ![]()
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