Comes from Holland.Comes from Holland. A real Dutch Treat." "Sure" I answered, and followed her to the door. As she walked up the stairs before me, my gaze was fixed on the creases behind her kneecaps which opened and closed with each step. Her apartment was (how can one put it tactfully?) a mess. An eclectic mixture of reprocessed Victoriana, Japanese boutique, and neo-Haight-Ashbury. "Hey Tweezer!" she yelled out to a battered birdcage, large enough to comfortably house an albatross. In it chirped a finch of some nondescript sort, while the cage bottom was covered with sheets of newspaper printed in Cyrillic. "Make yourself comfortable while I heat up the chocolate" Norma directed as she disappeared into the kitchen. There wasn't much room to sit down anywhere except on a large threadbare sofa, which I doubt had ever seen better days. Piled haphazardly on the chairs were books of all sorts, with titles like: "The Works of Virgil Finlay," "The Kalmyk Mongols," "Les Fleurs du Mal," "Sundials," "Memoirs of a Tattoist," etc. In all, a most diverse assortment of interests. When Norma returned from the kitchen, I noticed that she had changed her clothes. She was again wearing her accustomed jeans and a black tank-top. I had never before seen her bare arms. I was mildly shocked to note that her underarms were unshaven; adorned with sparse wisps of silky auburn down. She was also barefoot. Her feet were tiny and well-formed, without any of the usual calluses heels inflict on a woman. |