Electra B
“No, really, Electra,” I said, watching the conveyor. “I’m certain I knew her.”
“You did,” Electra told me. “Or, you do. Or better yet, you WOULD if you paid more attention to women who are wearing clothing.”
“Thank you!” Ghirardelli said, preening slightly, pulling down on my shirt pocket so her breasts showed.
“I only ever bought ONE copy of Playboy,” I moaned. “And I’m paying for it seven years later.”
“I never saw the point,” Cher muttered.
“It was the sylph issue,” Electra told him.
“Of PLAYBOY,” Cher explained, though Electra surely knew what he meant. I mean, if I knew what he meant, she couldn’t have missed it. “You dress women up, not down,” he went on. “They’re prettier dressed.”
“You’re not exactly the best judge of women,” Ghirardelli pointed out.
“He makes Electra even more beautiful,” I said. “He can claim to be an authority on the subject.”
“Damn straight,” Cher said, running a finger through his hair.
“What about me?” Ghirardelli asked.
“You, also, make Electra even more beautiful than she normally is.”
“Thanks,” our costumer said.
Electra, standing at one side of my pocket, didn’t say anything, but I could feel a warm glow off of her. She was thanking me for a compliment that she could tell was sincere.
“So, if that’s over with,” I muttered, “who’s the woman under the sign?”
“Deliah Moore,” Electra said. “You’ve met her at Portion Control at least six times.”
“Oooooh, yeah,” I said. I remembered her. “Top Kick at Portion Control.”
“Chef de Cuisine,” Electra corrected me.
“Thanks,” I said. I should be able to remember that for the rest of this visit. And suddenly, I was thrown back a decade. Electra keeping me out of trouble in a restaurant. “Suddenly, I’m in the mood for Chateaubriand.”
“You remember!” Electra cheered.
“I could eat,” Cher said.
“The sylph said redundantly,” Ghirardelli added.
Just then, the set came around the bend of the belt. I pulled it off and set it carefully on end. My suitcase was right behind it.
I rolled the set over to a bench and opened the front door. The sylphs swept in to inspect for any damage done in transit.
When they were satisfied, we found the Center’s driver in the usual spot. I sank into the back seat and folded the middle seat down to make the sylph seating area. Sylphs, sylph clothes and pieces of a vending-machine brownie were all placed there.
Ghirardelli went for the brownie first, the others dressed. Then we started the process of begging Ghirardelli to put some damned clothes on.
“Oh, hey!” Cher said in sudden realization. “You own her now! Just order her to get dressed!”
There was a long and shocked silence following that. The three of us stared at our colleague. “Um, sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. You, uh, you don’t do that, Conrad. You’ve never, uh, you don’t… I mean to say…”
“He,” Ghirardelli said, “entitles his sylphs to the privilege of maximizing their free will whenever possible.”
I gave her a grateful nod. I mean, I could never have said that. She nodded back. Then she sighed. “Would you like me to wear clothing, Conrad?”
“I would be more comfortable if your clothing choices, um… Help?” I asked Electra.
“Reflected the significance of the occasion,” she supplied. “Our first show, and at the Sylph Center, with our VIP guests.”
“And,” I added, “you do look pretty kick-ass in a skirt.”
“FINE,” she spat, picking up the garment. “I’ll put on the kick-ass skirt. If I must.”
“You JUST explained to me that you don’t ‘must’ anything,” Cher complained.
“Shut up and zip me up,” she snarled.
“Thanks,” Electra said, hugging her friend.
Cher helped with the dress and walked over to my side of the seating area. “I really do want to apologize,” he started to say.
“And you did. And I accept. And we’re done with that. Okay?” He smiled. Electra hugged him, too.
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Index
105. Kerri C
107. Annie C