Eloy falls silent when the girl unfolds a garment from her body bag. White silk, purple, green and black geometric print, Pucci, 1977.
“If the Doktora would like to trade,” Eloy says, her voice quavering slightly, “she should see me personally.”
“Of course,” Bodybag says. “I’ll let her know.”
It is a slow day. At noon, Doktora herself enters the door. She is slimmer than Eloy remembers. Today she is wearing a white tube top with black polka dots and a sweetheart neckline, a matching
pencil cut skirt in the same fabric. A pink beret from the last delivery is perched precariously on her stiff henna-tinted hair. “All this fuss and over what exactly?”
“Hello, Doktora. Your Girl Friday came by with a vintage blouse this morning.”
“Yes, I asked her to give it to you.”
Doktora throws the P
