Rasik Shah is an ex-lawyer who writes full time now after many years in the legal wilderness. He lives in Vancouver, Canada, having been born in Nairobi and spending more than three decades of his life in Kenya. He usually explores his African past in his writing. “The Display Suite” represents his disenchantment with the mores of the urban young in the West today.      Rasik is one of LitNet’s writers in the virtual WriteAgain “display classroom”. Do follow the progress of his story “The Discreet Charm of Nairobbers”. (The third version is set to appear very soon. It has been retitled “Nairobbery”.)

The display suite

There she is, on the glossy pages of this Elle Décor, Romance in Paris issue, wearing an airy organdy blouse, tucked under a tight flannel gray skirt, reclining with her back against the stainless steel countertop, crystal wine glass in hand, glass held up, shining as if in a dishwasher commercial, a diamond of bright light gleaming at the juncture of glass crystals. She looks saucy, a smile of sheer satisfaction at being in the midst of this elegant opulence. Organdy organza is her mood, she is undulating her curves in subtle, little waves against the stainless steel, feeling the cool of the steel of the top with the flat of her palm, sipping a slow sip of the Bordeaux light, Special Reserve, 1986, dangling the liquid on her tongue, rolling it in, then sticking the tongue out in a naughty little girl gesture, stretching her chest out, proud at its flatness, withdrawing the tongue. Small breasts are in fashion now, she is glad of looking virginal, totally at ease, her slim waist bending almost double. She would have preferred wearing the see-through chiffon, muslin gossamer fabric falling around her flat chest, her smooth silk-white panties gently rolling against the warm flannel of the skirt, white skin pinched by the string running around the edge of the Victorian drawers she had purchased at Restoration Hardware last week.
     She would like Ross to come over to her now, begging to be close and wanting to kiss her. She looks in his direction and softly calls out his name, offering him her cheek as he approaches, socked feet traversing softly on the bamboo flooring, a hint of Ralph Lauren on her face, lets him brush his slightly wet lips against her soft white cheek, allowing a moment to elapse as she takes in a whiff of the Bordeaux wine on his lips, then leads him to the chaise lounge, reclines her back on the ever so light blue velvet cloth, her head ensconced in the velvety blue of the large soft cushion, permitting him to sit at the edge near her feet, the slippers having been dropped off on the white shag, her toe-nails in polished silver shining in the gleam of light as she wiggles them. He fiddles with her middle toe, rubbing and massaging his long fingers around it, abandoning it soon for the next toe.
     “Oh, lovely, lovely!” she whispers and sighs, raising her stomach ever so slightly, “I love you Squidgy, my Squidgy,” and blows a kiss, rounding her lips and making a sucking, slurpy noise.
     She throws a glance at the ice bucket on the countertop above the façade of the fireplace, wine bottle sticking out at the centre of her field of vision.
     “Ross, Ross! Call me Princess,” she whispers, barely audible.
     Ross walks back to the counter, fills up her glass, replacing the bottle in the ice-bucket, wraps his fingers around the sharp middle of the crystal glass, brings it over, places it over the rosewood coaster on the little stool beside her. She is arrested by the sight of sharp flat crystal bars on the stem of the glass, a pinkish violet shade filling the inside of the glass surface, the diamond crystals on the main curvature of the glass dancing the reflection of dark and light shades of subdued violet emanating from the pastel colours of the neat space-design on the Santa Fe area rug.
     “Ross, Ross, I love you,” she whispers hoarsely in an almost male voice and raises her right foot, offering fresh toes to Ross’s itchy fingers. She enjoys the feel of Ross’s strong middle finger and thumb, sighs and raising her stomach, lifts her head up to take a sip, red lips wrapping around the curve of the rim of the fine Waterford crystal glass.
     Ross slips down to the shag, resting on his knees, and lifts her right big toe with both his hands. He is about to take the big toe in his mouth and says: “My darling Squidgy, you are my Princess.”
     She turns her gaze at the whiteness of the gossamer curtains and the white lilies in the white porcelain flower pot and sighs deeply.
     “Ross, Ross, fear of the dark, of physical mutilation was instilled in me pretty early on,” she manages a whole sentence before passing out, shutting her eyes as he works his mouth around her middle toe. She is undulating her frame up and down, looking at the paintings on the white wall across from her. Ross has moved to the third toe and is digging his finger around the little toe, squeezing it, hurting a little. She is looking at the painting of horses, two heads in dark strokes against a white background, and she is feeling excited. Ross gets his mouth around her little toe and digs his front teeth around the middle section. She is about to scream, but suddenly experiences a sensation of thrill, shivers running down her spine, her body exuding juices.
     “Pictures must have the tremendous intensity of silence — the silence before the storm,” she manages to whimper the words out, trying to regain her breath, her chest heaving. She will need a few minutes to recover, he knows.
     They emerge out of the display suite after a few minutes, she having adjusted her red hair in the bathroom mirror, swaying on the rubber floor, still a little dizzy at the memory of ecstasy. He has tucked the ice bucket and the half-empty wine bottle in his daypack on his back. They step out into the rain in Hamilton Lane, wishing goodbye to the neat oriental realty girls in the lobby, all elegantly dressed in black. They walk to the pizza shop next to the convenience store and give two orders of the Special at 2.95 that include two mushroom and green pepper slices and pop. She settles down on a stool facing the window to the street, taking in the ambience of Yaletown.

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