Love in the Time of Taffeta
Chapter One
There are few things more annoying than hanging up frame samples at the end of the day. Well, I suppose I can come up with some: listening to a friend complain about how her new diet causes breath like a camel's; filling a Laundromat washing machine with clothes and detergent, only to learn that it's broken; dropping blush on a tiled bathroom floor and watching it crack into a dozen pieces. But at six o'clock on a Tuesday, I am having a difficult time imagining any of these fates, because I am singularly focused on placing every one of these samples on tiny, spindly pegs. Chrome samples to the left, brass ones to the right. Wood ones on the opposite side, from stark and spare to ostentatious and ornate, marching from left to right across the seafoam green wall.
"Iley, those don't look very tidy," brays Andrew, my manager. He is on his way out the door and is sporting a lumpy, Members Only-style jacket the color of desiccated dog shit.
"You don't look very tidy," I mutter under my breath as I accidentally drop a gray-speckled sample to the floor.
"What?" h ... read full excerpt from: Love in the Time of Taffeta ebook
