i'll wear that dress if you wear the tie. Who: Various (+ Elvira Treveil.) What: An errand. Where: Across the city. When: Sunday - Wednesday. Rating: PG. Status: Complete narrative.
sunday. Lyon’s Market opens late and closes early on Sundays, leaving its employees free to dedicate their extra hours to worship. The sun has yet to set and the manager Lyon is already readying his store for closing. He mans one of the last open registers as his nephew bustles in the back with inventory.
Tapping his foot impatiently, the manager watches the queue dwindle as he punches in prices. The next customer steps up, her stock bearing cookies and paper decorations and brightly coloured tissue. He greets her blandly, weariness slipping through to his perfunctory smile.
“Stocking up for a tea party?” He tries to make small conversation.
“Of sorts,” the customer replies matter-of-factly. He sees her glance at the sign, already flipped to CLOSED. “Closing already?”
“Sunday, of course. Faram’s.”
“Why yes,” the customer approves, looking up from her coin purse with a smile as sweet as her desserts. “Indeed.”
He finishes ringing up her order. There is a new policy regarding saving resources, so he does not offer to bag her iterms. Not until he sees her struggle carrying her items. “Would you,” he began, “like a bag for this?”
“I would,” she tells him. He (thinks he) notes relief in her tone as she continues. “Thank you very much.”
The action of arranging her purchases happens automatically. None of the items are fragile, so instead he takes care that the paper does not wrinkle. After Lyon finishes, she repeats her thanks. He bids her good day.
monday. Dorea waits on her sore feet for a customer who flips through the boutique’s catalogue. The autumn designs feature gowns and lingerie in creams and deep jewel tones, in off-whites and ruby Red(s). Backless dresses drape themselves over mannequins that pepper the tight gold-wallpapered room, encasing them in a map of intricate crochet detailing.
“Would you like any assistance?” the boutique employee asks again, clicking her gum and rapping her fingers against the glass countertop. When the lady nods, concentration still diverted to the clothes, she continues, “Are you shopping for yourself or another?”
“For him, in a sense.” The reply comes from between lips pressed tight as the customer scans the thin, lacy strips of cloth and bare plastic, mannequin skin.
“Does he have a preference?”
“I wouldn’t say his choice of lingerie is any of my business.” The customer clears her throat, hand to her necklace when she continues. “I’m also shopping for myself.”
“Ah, but you said,” Dorea counters and trails off, chilled. The customer is always right and in this case, also confusing.
“A gift for someone, yes,” she repeats with a wink, “But I am shopping for myself. Thank you.”
After several tries, Dorea finally persuades the woman to take a dress into the changing rooms. When she emerges again, scalloped lace frames the square décolleté. A scooping back reveals skin in a v-shape reflecting in the silver wishbone hanging around her neck. Lace inspired by vintage designs swirls embroidery onto thin organza, a ribbon at the base of her neck. She spins around once, examining her figure fitted at the torso, flaring at the hips in the mirror.
“I’ll take it.”
“Of course, ma’am.” A beat. “There is a sale on babydolls. They come in matching sets that include knickers with the same lace.”
The blonde woman’s gaze following her outstretched hand to scalloped, looped chantilly that echoed her chosen dress’ swirling designs. She returns Dorea’s polite smile with one of her own. “Oh, no thank you. I’m not interested. I think that would be a bit much.”
“Alright then.” Dorea rings her up at the counter and pops her gum again.
tuesday. The post office is suspicious at the light box. At the counter, he weighs the package, eyebrow raised to inquire the contents. How strange that she’d pay the premium for next-day delivery for this.
“Thank you.” She bows her head briefly as she pays without complaint. He catches himself staring at her low neckline. Her hand flies to the ribbon at the back of her neck. “Yes,” she answers, though he had asked nothing. “It’s new.”
He mutters a quick apology as she leaves, brushing off his lecherous eyes with a smile he thinks was sewn onto her face.
In the back, the postal workers hurry to process her order in time.
wednesday. A frail looking courier drops a package off at the Vannes Estate, giving the servant who answered the door a hasty bow before limping back to his mail hovercar. He glances at his ticking wristwatch. It's only noon, and he sighs as he returns to his other deliveries.
Inside the nondescript brown paper wrapping, the quality of grocery store bagging, is a sleek pink box from Gladiola’s Wish, a boutique in the higher end of the Bazaar District. On a cream colored tag—To: LORD Redwald Francis Vannes. No return address, no fingerprints.
The box is filled with white doilies and pink tissue paper, but nothing else.
A note taped to the bottom contains a print out of the message “ReVa: ps: i prefer lace.” with an addition typed onto the bottom margin: