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THE TWO MRS. WATSONS

The department store looked like a dream. The subtle, recessed lighting created inviting pools that were filled with subtle, recessed items. The cosmetics had logos and shapes which screamed "I'm expensive and good!". There were sweaters as soft as butter, in colors that never met up with any natural rainbow. Glittering jewelry smirked in glass cases. The glass was so clear and clean that it was invisible. The objects inside appeared to be floating in space.

No one approached, wielding any obnoxious perfume bottles. In fact, no one approached at all.

Everyone was wandering as if in a dream; as if the place was a drug. Voices were sotto. Postures were exquisite. No one was obese, had bad teeth or cheap haircuts. No one spoke too loudly or too ethnically. Everyone gleamed.

It was a nasty day. The rain was coming down in sheets. Sideways. Linda Watson, a chocolate brown woman of delightful bearing and stature, blustered into the department store, shaking droplets off of her broken umbrella.

She was wearing her last purchase, a Dolce and Gabbana number involving pants, tailored overcoat, and blouse. That outfit must have set her back at least eight grand. Her sensible "rain shoes" were worth eight hundred. Her jewelry was from Tiffany's and her hair (under her "rain hat") had the most delicate weave imaginable. That weave had to have cost hundreds and taken hours.

Linda Watson was a lawyer with the biggest law firm in The City. She had just prevailed in a painful settlement with a major bank in a class action lawsuit, and was on the hunt for a new basic black number that she would wear to the post litigation celebration at Francois' on the Bay. That meant heading for the escalator and meeting an appointment with her "lady" in Couture. Her "lady" was a little French sprite who could eyeball a customer and determine size, proper cut, color, and (most importantly) ability to pay.

Normally, folks with Linda's money would have the store bring some things to her apartment, but Linda loved to stalk her prey in it's natural habitat.

But coming to the store also meant being obviously and obnoxiously followed by store security. This particular fellow looked like he went home to a 5th floor walk up, barely graduated high school, and hated black people. Sure enough, he was on the escalator. Right behind her. Talking into his walkie talkie. His nose was right up her butt.

The haute couture department was on the third floor

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