Page 26 of The Love Haters

“This is the one. I feel it,” Rue said, now stepping closer to hold this max-brightness,full-bolt-of-fabricgarment up to me.

I was shaking my head before it touched me. “No, no, no,” I said.

“I’m thinking yes, yes, yes,” Rue said. “These colors are perfect.”

“I’m not a—” I started, head still shaking. “I don’t really…” I looked around. “Isn’t there anything plain?”

“Plain?” Rue asked, unable to imagine what I meant.

I rotated 360 degrees, scanning the tropical prints. Of course, obviously, I knew there was zero chance I would stumble upon a black T-shirt and jeans section in a tropics-wear boutique. But there had to be at least a piece or two that hadn’t been designed by someone on active psychedelics.

I stretched up my neck for a better view, straining for a glance of maybe a navy blue. “I’m not really a bright-colors person,” I said.

But Rue looked me up and down. “Sweetheart, life is short. Let’s fix that.”

Panic was setting in. Where was my damned suitcase? In vain, I looked out the front window, as if someone from the airport might screech up right now and toss it out onto the sidewalk.

“Okay, okay,” Rue said, reading my face and relenting. “You don’t like colors.”

“Ilikethem,” I said. “I just don’twearthem. On myself. And, plus,” I added, now panic-babbling, “this is alotof colors. Right? It’s like Lilly Pulitzer threw up in here. After eating some bad key limes. And taking acid. On a tropical vacation.”

Rue was having none of it. “Just think of it as a robe. You’ve wornrobesbefore. You’ve got one at home, right?”

I nodded, but solemnly.

“Don’t tell me,” Rue said, reading my face. “Your robe at home is black.”

“Charcoal gray.” I nodded, with a wave of longing.

Were myeyesfilling up withtears?

“Okay,” Rue said, accepting that she wouldn’t be getting me pumped up about this Astrobrights situation anytime soon. She held up the caftan again. “Just for a little while. Only temporary. It’s better than being naked, right?”

At last, some agreement. “It is better than being naked,” I conceded.

Rue kept us focused, steering me toward the dressing rooms. “Just keep it on while we wash and dry your”—a little pause here—“outfit. And then you’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

She patted me on the shoulder as I disappeared through the dressing room curtain.

Temporary, I thought,okay.Then:Better than naked.

The dressing room felt strangely smaller than usual, until I figured out why. “There’s no mirror in here?” I called to Rue through the curtain as I unbuttoned my jeans, noting that my coffee-stained (black) underwear was still wet.

Should I take that off, too?I wondered, thinking maybe I shouldn’tget coffee on the merchandise. Ultimately, I wrapped my bra and panties up neatly in my T-shirt and set the pile on a little bench, sneakers on top, and then, feeling more naked than I’d ever felt in my entire life, lifted the caftan up over my devoid-of-undergarments body, dropped it over my head, and let it undulate down like a silk parachute.

“The shop owner doesn’t believe in mirrors,” Rue called back. Then, unrelated: “I grabbed you some flip-flops.”

“The owner doesn’tbelieveinmirrors?” I asked, adjusting to the watery cool of the silk.

“She thinks fashion should be more about how youfeelthan how you look.”

What an appalling idea.

In a tone likeWe can outsmart this lunatic, I asked, “Do you have a pocket mirror?”

“I happen to agree with her,” Rue said.

And then, in that instant, I just knew.

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