In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

fullness behind her new Chrissie Hynde shag, Beatrice avoided
touching anything lest it soil her chamois jeans.
Dick sized up the eclectic street finds that passed for furniture
with a bemused smile, "Sonrisa's selling those very chairs but you didn't
get yours there, did you, my dear?"
Also with a smirk on her lips, Ula gloated over the tatami and
its black cotton zafu, as if this had something to do with her, which of
course it did, it all did.
Sandro was the only one to remain frozen by the door in his
Cyber Ciné cardboard cutout pose. Fearful symmetry was back under a
golden Mexican tan, his face restored, but his eyes were as vacant as
glass ones and disclosed nothing.
Had they even seen the picture over the futon?
The gang was on its way to check out some loft space in the
trendy wasteland that was Tribeca. Down West Broadway they
sauntered in the pale April sunlight, an unlikely caravan with Sandro
leading, Ula padding along in her jellaba and new pale two toed
platypus shoes, as abstracted and disdainful as the camel by the truck in
the honeymoon photo. The Arabs say there are one hundred names for
god, of which man knows ninety nine, but only the camel knows the
hundredth. Ula ambled down the street now as if she knew that one
too. Maybe the camel had whispered it into her ear after she'd snatched
its soul with her camera.
A few feet behind Penny, Dick and Beatrice skipped along, arm
in arm more like newlyweds themselves than new business partners.
Sandro's hair flapped in long heavy slabs, longer than his
mother's now. He squinted into the glare of downtown like an Apache
warrior but he didn't walk like an Indian, stiff shouldered, with one foot
in front of the other. He marched towards Canal Street as his namesake
on the coin had into China.
At the stoplight, new LED pictographs replaced the English
signs, but they still had to scramble across Canal before the stampede
of trucks resumed.
The building on Franklin Street's facade was limestone, like
Paris buildings, but supported by a row of curly steel Corinthian
columns instead of stone, with an uber-yuppie bar next door. Rave
reviews from Zagat's and the magazines were posted in the window.
The real estate guy was late, so they mulled around on the steel
platform in front of the door and watched students unload their
professor's bubble wrapped paintings from a Mercedes SUV. Under the
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