trust in procuring a lavender umbrella & other such delicacies by Rina Rossi

They trust me. Through the colossal, light-bulb shining LLIB Department Store, windows reflect my quick figure. My sharp pumps clank in a clean, rhythmic fashion on the marble floor, exquisitely constructed by the finest artists in Re Freshe. I tread my pumps up 5,600 of the LLIB’s cumbersome steps, perhaps kicking a few stones off the step’s edges on the way since I was in a terrible hurry to procure my items. I take a lingering, pensive look at the LLIB’s first floor of aesthetic delicacies: winter fragrances, golden handbags, diamond earrings designed by the most learned Re Freshe jewelers, and soft, silk dresses.

 I unfasten the belt of my cream, faux fur coat and throw it over the velveteen couch, now donning my cherry pantsuit. Procuring* with such a coat is a hassle. I begin to try on various coats, and eye myself in the three-folding crystalline mirror that overlooks the glass veranda. People of all ages watch me procure my items. Some simply walk by, others sketch drawings, or take notes. Some just watch. Nonetheless, they trust me. All of them. As long as I do everything in order. I have my new faux leather handbag, lavender umbrella, cream trench coat, and melon-avocado fragrance in one hand. After years of procuring, my soul and hands can handle it all. I set my purchases on the cash register counter. The clock reads 11:46. The department store is long closed by now, so the crowd below begins to leave. But they trust me. All of them. I scan each item: the faux leather handbag, lavender umbrella, cream trench coat, and melon-avocado fragrance. The screen reads the price I owe to the store. On Sundays, I pay Electric**.

 I set down my handbag to look for my card, and prepare to sign my grand autograph. The crowd below disperses. My actions are not too interesting tonight. Just the normal procuring. But the telephone rings. I sigh, telephone calls are for Saturdays. Nonetheless, if they trust me, trust me to procure and pay for such costly delicacies, I must fulfill my duties.

“Is this room service?” I ask.

“No, dear. It’s Dr. Sensenon. Your anti-clone…is on the loose”, he says and abruptly hangs up.

Suddenly, the glass veranda shatters into smithereens. I spot my anti-clone: the same, quick figure who throws off her cream faux fur coat, now only in her cherry-colored pantsuit. She grabs a fresh pair of each delicacy I planned to purchase: a faux leather handbag, lavender umbrella, cream trench coat, and melon-avocado fragrance and does not even think about giving her check or paying Electric.

The crowd comes back and watches from below in despair. They have missed me preparing to pay Electric and my anti-clone steal. They see two pantsuit-clad individuals with an identical pair of purchases in their hands. Who stole? Who paid? Do they still trust me?

 

Glossary:

**Electric: To pay via card.

*Procuring: shopping at Re Freshe.

 

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