Salon Girls and the woman who puts electricity in my pockets

Four and a half hours is not nearly enough time. It is like dropping a few crackers amongst a famine, a teaspoon of water to settle your thirst. And of course that is not true - during that slice of time there is no hunger or thirst, no lack of attention. It is the Skakespeare troupe to an audience of one. And they circle and laugh and touch and clip and trim and shape and whisper and caress and smile and then push me back out into the world. Perhaps improved, certainly delighted.

While her posture is unassuming and the droop in her blouse sufficient to expose half of her breasts, do not be misled, caught unawares: she is about the business of recovery, of proper cataloguing, and will not be dissuaded from her assignment. And with paper and pencil she will take copious notes, furious notes, and her posture will not change, she will not stiffen even slightly as her eyes flash and her hand jots, and while her breasts remain pleasant to look at, soon enough she will adjust the current and I will startle and she will no longer have pleasant breasts for me to look at. My only active sense will be hearing: her voice so calm, instructing, questioning, and the scratch of her pencil (it seems muffled, almost muted, as if she tries to keep this sound from me - to what end?) and the low drone of the generator, the occasional sizzle of the current, the shrill bleat of my voice.

It is likely, almost for certain, that I will be questioned about this slice of time, this expense. And so I will tell of feeding chocolates and the bottle of Cab Sauv pulled from the owner's private stash behind the safe and I will tell of the various and abundant allures of the pretties, and their obvious flatteries and their less obvious lingerings, of both touch and glance, a trail of imaginary affections. I will explain, perhaps even catalogue, the incongruous by very definition nature of this series of interactions, the predictable unfavorable outcomes, and all of the noticed inconsistencies, the tiniest of foibles and untruths. And this will please her, sufficient feed for her jotting hand and flashing eyes, and if I can remember when under the duress, I will describe her breasts to her and attribute them as belonging to one of the salon beauties. And I will deliver exquisite detail, total appreciation, and will expand and expand and expand until I am told to stop, until the current removes the delight.