not dead -- a chrysalis

       With her sense of modesty gone she no longer had the intense longing for clothing, the sense of counting the minutes like she did at the end of the spring semester, before her original plan was suddenly and crushingly destroyed at the last minute.  On the good side, losing that intense desire had the effect of giving her a clearer head as to her escape.  Now, wandering idly over the grassy lawn in the early afternoon, looking down at its soft plushness like a natural carpet under her tanned, bare feet, she thought of the fact that today was the day.  The day of her escape.  Today at three o’clock she would take her leave of Mr. Cook and get on the 3:15 bus.  The bus stop, consisting of a bench and a sign outside a convenience store, was about half a mile’s walk down a balmy sunny oceanfront street.  Unfortunately, she had grown so accustomed to being naked, and had enjoyed the last few days here so much, that her escape would be a jolt, like being jerked awake from a pleasant dream.

        This estate and the whole crowd here had not impressed her much at first.  The surrounding were luxurious and beautiful, and it was good to be in warm sun all the time, but she just felt out of place.  The houses!  And the names!  Cook.  West.  Wickland.  Terry.  Bell.  She missed seeing brown skin, Rod, Jen, Marisol.  There might have been snow, cold, and Ross and the Dean and Wanda hovering nearby, yet she preferred that old environment to this Anglo whiteworld of rich lawyers, self-satisfied people who were oh so kinky and artistic.  But then after the second day she realized she was being prejudiced.  Having been abused and condemned so much for her naked appearance, she pledged that she would never criticize people for externals.

        And this crowd had grown on her.  Mr. Cook’s sculptures didn’t seem as good as everyone thought they were, but he was not too conceited about it, and he was a nice old guy.  So he made a pile of money and decided to retire and enjoy it, spending his time doing his sculpting hobby, selling his works to rich friends -- what was wrong with that?  And was it his fault that his friends were rich as he was?  She thought of her father, after thirty years of work he only had a little house in Providence with not enough money to pay for much else.  He certainly worked hard.  Maybe Mr. Cook had too, and maybe Mr. Cook would be the first to admit that he had simply been luckier.