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A Real Woman Too

©2007, Made in DNA

She stood against the closed door, all curves and curls, with the glow of the evening sun playing across her Eurasian features. My nuts went bolts. For a while, she said nothing. That was alright by me. I’m the kind of android who can enjoy a visual bombshell without blinking. Granted no blinking comes easy: no eyelids. So as I didn’t bother opening my yapper, we eyeballed each other like shy teens at a school dance. All rev and no go.

Call it professional courtesy or call it a professional landmine, but I prefer to let my clients tell me what end of the world is up for the day before I give consultation. Unlike the sultry citizen of the city-state who now graced my Sinars, they usually come in spilling their guts all over my office. Afterwards I call in a cleaning service to have them tidy up the emotional destruction left behind.

In the waning light from between the slats of the crooked Venetian blinds over the only window to my office, her pert chest heaved—as if she’d just run all the way here from whatever compelled to seek my assistance—beneath what looked to be a very expensive, loose-fitting silk outfit. A cross pollination between a Chinese qipao and blue-jean overalls. Designer. One-of-a-kind.

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