Lily is laughing at me.
“A little help.”
“I’m sorry. You look so funny.”
Not what a man wants to hear... at such a moment as this.
There was no one else about. It seemed so safe. It was supposed to be quick and easy, in and out.
Who was to know of the unseen difficulties involved?
Who was to know that the blessed thing would be so tight, stiff, and hard to get into?
I refer, of course, to the jeans that I found. Just the one pair. Only for me.
Though there were other... scraps. Maybe something can be made out of them for Lily, yet.
“You’re going to have to put down your pen and stop
writing if you’re ever going to get those pants on,” Lily
suggests. It is a wise suggestion, but if I put down the quill,
how will the moment ever be recorded?
What is there to do but ask, “Can you take dictation?”
“Is that some kind of sick joke?”
“Is it?” I wonder out loud. On what basis? What classical formula of humor is therein involved?
“Just put down the pen and jump into the pants.”
Ah dear sweet Lily, so kind, so helpful... so
beautiful. She is wearing her robes slightly differently today...
They are more revealing, slung a little lower. Somehow, it is as
though the very fabric itself has become slightly thinner, slightly
more transparent... as if during the night every other thread was
removed or spontaneously drifted away. You can almost see...
“Stop staring,” Lily nervously commands, and then
thinking better of it -- after reflecting on the impropriety -- she
adds, “You’d better get dressed. If someone sees you... If
someone sees me.”
She has a point... and what do you know, once again
I have my page. It is amazing how fast things can come together
when you’re under the gun. With a slip and a zip, and a deft
buckling of the belt, Walla! I am dressed. In jeans they
call them, and of all the strange things, there is a name stitched in
the tab.
Brothers, I have been reborn.
You may call me... Levi.