The Caffeinated Lifestyle
Author's Note:
3. Klatchian is the New Black
Window-shopping was quite a popular sport in Ankh-Morpork. The only shops with windows worth staring at were the really high-end ones, and if you weren't Thieves Guild there was no way you could rob one without getting strung upside down outside the Guild by your toenails. The poor, of which there were many, had to be satisfied with staring at the displays.
Vampires had an advantage, because when they looked into the glass, there was no reflection to block their view.
Maladicta sipped Klatchian Black out of one of her portable coffee cups that she was forever carrying around, and squinted up at this particular display.
"It's quite nice," said Otto carefully. He had the feeling it was expected of him.
Maladicta made an elegant noise of scorn and turned away. "Velvet," she muttered disdainfully. "Velvet! And ruched too. With lace at the sleeves, oh, lace, oh yes. And look at those skirts – I bet they're underwired. And the corset. Ye gods, am I glad I don't wear those things anymore."
Otto stared at her in some confusion.
"I thought vimmin liked dresses?" he ventured.
"Shows how little you know," said Maladicta sniffily.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she added hurriedly, on viewing his hurt expression. "It's really a love-hate relationship. I spent a hundred-something years trapped in corsets and under-wired nightdresses. Well, I liked it at first, all vampire girls go through that stage, but after some time – well, I had enough. When I touch black velvet now, I get rashes."
Otto assimilated this. "You still have not said vhere ze part about love comes in," he pointed out.
Maladicta sighed. "In a way, you were right. When I see one I can't tear my eyes away. It's some sort of horrible fascination." She cast one last glance of mixed emotions at the black velvet gown, and then moved on. Otto trotted after her. "Think of it as blood," she was saying. "We're sworn off it, right? But still it draws us."
"It's a lot easier, vhen you put it zat vay."
Otto mused on this as they strolled back up the street. His ideal of a dream girl had always been a tall Gothic beauty who nearly always wore black lace basques and satin gloves. Maladicta was short, wore her hair in a rakish ponytail down her back, and had never been seen to dress in anything apart from her regimental uniform. She was definitely not pretty. 'Debonair' might hit closer to the point.
They looked like two young men, one in black and the other in red and white, strolling up the street together.
Ah, well, ideals change, thought Otto.
"Do you ever miss being a girl?" he inquired.
Maladicta gave the question due consideration. "Sometimes. But not really. Besides," she added, pausing for a long sip, "I have coffee now."