27
AARON
The man I recognised as Ishmael lay on a Pepto-Bismol-pink velvet chaise longue, or a chaise lounge as Nonna had insisted on calling it even after our neighbour at the time, a Quebecois named Emile who’d spent most of his free time playing the violin—badly—had explained multiple times that “chaise longue” was the correct French for “long chair.” Maybe Nonna did it to annoy him? I couldn’t have blamed her if that was the case. Even now, the sound of string instruments set my teeth on edge.
Anyhow, Ishmael was lying on his chaise, sighing dramatically as an assistant frantically fanned him with a clipboard. He wore a skintight tangerine catsuit with platform boots and a feathered collar, also orange, but a darker shade. Probably he’d call that burnt butterscotch or honeyed ember
