Stepping out of the shower, she swings her long wavy hair to the side and
sqeegees it to remove water. The golden highlights streak through her hair,
natural and effortlessly earned from being outside. She wraps a huge,
fluffy towel around her lithe body and floats in a cloud of flowery shampoo
to the half-open closet, flinging it open and stepping aside in
astonishment.
Every conceivable color, texture, and brand of clothing is somewhere in this closet, suspended from hangers or carelessly draped on the comfortable-looking loveseat inside. Liv absentmindely flips a curl out of her eyes and sashays, with a huge grin playing across her lips, into the vast closet.
First she dives into the drawers, filled to brimming with soft, pretty bras and panties; thin tee-shirts in myriad colors; and scarves, swirled with flowers or patterns or shot with sparkly ribbons. Bigger drawers hold countless pairs of expensive jeans and long trousers. She opens a small cabinet and reaches in, her fingers lightly touching on numerous bags and purses. The hangers support blouses, flimsy dresses, patterned blazers, and practical tops. Everywhere she looks, shoes and belts are draped and shoved into nooks and crannies.
Liv grabs a bra and panties, choosing the ones with tiny bows on the sides. Breathing through her nose, she resists delving into the tee-shirt drawer and instead pulls out the first thing she sees, a simple white wife- beater with a racing-back. Then she removes a dark-washed pair of seven for all mankind jeans, noticing their frayed bottoms and lovingly creased knees, indicating a favorite pair. The shoes are sparkly pink flip flops, embellished with sequins and rhinestones. Proud of her quick finish and willpower, Liv steps outside the closet and gets dressed, trying to keep her thick wet hair from dripping over the clothes.
She twists the now-used towel into a turban on her head, and spins over to the mirror and makeup boxes in the bathroom. Staring at herself again, she notices, with a laugh, the complete uselessness of makeup for this face. She curls her eyelashes, applies mascara, and swipes on chapstick, then tilts her chin. Well, that was easy. She resists playing with the innumerable pots of eyeshadow and the gold eyeliner, and ambles over to the sink. Liv removes the towel, draping it carefully over an empty rack, and chooses at random a tube of gel. She scrunches her hair randomly and carelessly, then twists it up behind her head, scrutinizing from all angles the effect on her long neck. The hair drops, and she leaves the bathroom, moving to the window.
On the way, she grabs a huge silver ring, dangly chandelier earrings, and a big jade necklace from the overflowing bureau. Then, fastening the earrings, she stands at the window, gazing onto the busy street below. Minutes pass, and she suddenly sighs, checking the clock by the bed: 11:47. She shakes out her hair, grabs the courderoy shoulder bag from its spot on the door and pirouettes towards the door, spritzing herself with Chance as she passes the bureau.
3 flights of stairs later she reaches the door to the street, and pauses, mentally checking herself for keys, money, sunglasses. Running her fingers through her damp hair, she feels light nervous butterflies develop in the pit of her stomach. Shrugging it off, she adjusts the bag, squares her shoulders, and opens the door, her mind already on finding the café to meet Sam.
Every conceivable color, texture, and brand of clothing is somewhere in this closet, suspended from hangers or carelessly draped on the comfortable-looking loveseat inside. Liv absentmindely flips a curl out of her eyes and sashays, with a huge grin playing across her lips, into the vast closet.
First she dives into the drawers, filled to brimming with soft, pretty bras and panties; thin tee-shirts in myriad colors; and scarves, swirled with flowers or patterns or shot with sparkly ribbons. Bigger drawers hold countless pairs of expensive jeans and long trousers. She opens a small cabinet and reaches in, her fingers lightly touching on numerous bags and purses. The hangers support blouses, flimsy dresses, patterned blazers, and practical tops. Everywhere she looks, shoes and belts are draped and shoved into nooks and crannies.
Liv grabs a bra and panties, choosing the ones with tiny bows on the sides. Breathing through her nose, she resists delving into the tee-shirt drawer and instead pulls out the first thing she sees, a simple white wife- beater with a racing-back. Then she removes a dark-washed pair of seven for all mankind jeans, noticing their frayed bottoms and lovingly creased knees, indicating a favorite pair. The shoes are sparkly pink flip flops, embellished with sequins and rhinestones. Proud of her quick finish and willpower, Liv steps outside the closet and gets dressed, trying to keep her thick wet hair from dripping over the clothes.
She twists the now-used towel into a turban on her head, and spins over to the mirror and makeup boxes in the bathroom. Staring at herself again, she notices, with a laugh, the complete uselessness of makeup for this face. She curls her eyelashes, applies mascara, and swipes on chapstick, then tilts her chin. Well, that was easy. She resists playing with the innumerable pots of eyeshadow and the gold eyeliner, and ambles over to the sink. Liv removes the towel, draping it carefully over an empty rack, and chooses at random a tube of gel. She scrunches her hair randomly and carelessly, then twists it up behind her head, scrutinizing from all angles the effect on her long neck. The hair drops, and she leaves the bathroom, moving to the window.
On the way, she grabs a huge silver ring, dangly chandelier earrings, and a big jade necklace from the overflowing bureau. Then, fastening the earrings, she stands at the window, gazing onto the busy street below. Minutes pass, and she suddenly sighs, checking the clock by the bed: 11:47. She shakes out her hair, grabs the courderoy shoulder bag from its spot on the door and pirouettes towards the door, spritzing herself with Chance as she passes the bureau.
3 flights of stairs later she reaches the door to the street, and pauses, mentally checking herself for keys, money, sunglasses. Running her fingers through her damp hair, she feels light nervous butterflies develop in the pit of her stomach. Shrugging it off, she adjusts the bag, squares her shoulders, and opens the door, her mind already on finding the café to meet Sam.
