Alexis is smiling so sweetly while she models this hairy leopard print blouse/jacket. Little was she to know that seconds later this garment prickled to life and devoured her, limb by limb, in a symphony of carnage the likes of which humankind hasn’t witnessed since the Gauls vs Romans. I had little time to mourn the loss of my friend, and, after a brief flirtation with guilt-ridden thoughts that perhaps I shouldn’t have asked Alexis to model this dangerous-looking ensemble in the first place, I decided to hightail it out of Baltimore before the police and Salvation Army started asking questions. I made a beeline for my car, but only after quickly scanning the display case at the counter for vintage accessories, selecting and purchasing a cute 1950’s mother of pearl cocktail purse (so “now”!)
As I made my way through a labyrinth of Baltimore brownstones unaided by GPS my subconscious alternated between stylized visions of The Wire, and painful flashbacks of that day’s thrifty massacre. I tried to remember how it all started…
“Oh my.” I said, “You need to try on that hairy one?”
“Which hairy one… this?” Alexis responded, indicating an outdated, but not thoroughly off-base angora sweater.
“No. The hairy one.” I emphasized, motioning to the murderous caftan.
“Ooooh. The hairy one.”
And seconds later it was the end. If only I’d let her try on the angora. Sigh.
Disclaimer: No Alexises were harmed in the writing of this blog post. I can’t make the same promise about leopards. Or Omar.