Can we do this again?

Day 1 of the Holiday Log

Yes I realise that the essence of time has left me completely bewildered and somewhat unconcerned standing upright on the train station platform, sort of like a wooden doll attached to a pole. I do have a vague sense that I should be boarding one of these trains, but which? The notion of actual events that need my participation seem to be lost in a trail of blurry hand-written notes, crumpled up at the bottom of my bag amidst stains of harried gratification or slipped into the enormous and never-ending pile of papers that elude repeated promises, and I find myself just standing.
Standing and waiting.
But I have no idea what I'm waiting for.
Or do I?
"I think you do," she says. I turn and look at long dirty blonde hair, red lips and a cream furry overcoat. "I think you need pants."
I say, "I'm wearing pants" in a polite tone of voice and wait for her to look down and see how correct I am.
"Yes," she says, her eyes on my face, faraway and yet she's really close to my personal space. I think that I should feel disturbed by this. I'm not. "Black ones."
I smirk a little. "They are."
"No," her smile is in reaction to a distant thought she's having. "You need black ones. I know the place."
"I think I-"
She grabs my arm and pulls me through the station. Somehow I find myself running and I have no idea where we are going. She runs fast for a girl wearing boots with high heels on them.
"It's this way!" she calls back.
People turn as we pass, like part of an act, all at the same time. Like clowns at a carnival. We're attracting attention. Maybe they think we're being chased.
"Wh- wher- phwww!" I try and ask where exactly we are running to. I always buy my pants from Minou Mignon on Treval street, but she might not have heard about it. We look similar in size so I should probably mention it to her.
"Here!"
We stop. I'm gasping but she's not. Does she run in heels all the time?
"I have a- phwww, I have-"
"This is the only place you will shop from now on. These pants."
We're standing on the street above the station staring into a large window with paper-thin mannequins displayed behind the window wearing entirely black.
"Is it fashion?" I manage to ask.
"Black is always in fashion."
She's gazing at them dreamily, eerily, and they all look exactly the same as the pants she has on. However, the tops are all different. Tank tops, sweater vests, blouses, two-piece suit jackets, gold buttons, gold rings, bracelets and shoes.
I take a large gulp of my water. "I'm Cerri," I say as a way to break the ice and reclaim some normality in this social situation. Although on second thoughts, perhaps the running through the station adventure was the ice-breaker?
"Era," she replies without looking at me.
"Oh." What a weird name. "Is it short for anything?"
She turns to me. "I don't think so."
I nod in agreement even though I am not. I do not condone the name Era and most likely never will.
"Oh it is! It's short for Erame. The cartoon thing."
Her lips are astonishingly red. I hear myself making noises of approval and even making a small conversation out of the cartoon that I have apparently seen, all the while staring at the shape and colour of Era's mouth. As if it alone is the one thing that brings all the other absurdities together to make sense. As if it was a reason.
Could a mouth be a reason?
How bizarre.
Where would I put such a thought?
"I have no money," I hear the words coming out of my mouth and I tear myself away from the fantasies of thought-stacking neatly and colour-coordinated with labels and stickers lined up artistically around reaching over to ease my finger slowly-
"They have sales on Wednesdays and Fridays. Ask for Stacey."
I raise my eyebrows. Era looks back at me blankly, plainly, like a child, as if nothing is wrong. I feel myself tensing because she's a little smaller than I am so the child-like expression swirls around connotations like a butterfly, or a wicked fairy wanting to play a game.
I say, "You dragged me all the way here to get me to buy pants?"
She nods. "It's for charity," she says lazily. Her green eyes wide and honest. "But also, you wouldn't want anything else."
Our reflections are standing side by side, shadowed, one light and one dark. I see myself reaching out-
"Can I have your number?" I ask all at once, to stop the hazardous embarrassment that's sure to ensue. I feel as though I'm on the edge of a cliff. Any second now I could step off, or slip off, or be sharply pushed off, and I could fall down past rock, through the air, away from the clouds, I could fall until I cease to exist.
She fumbles around in her bag and pulls out a notebook. Rips out a page. Scribbles. "Ummmmm, what else was I going to tell you?"
I could fall until I fly.
"Oh yeah, there's always a sale on once a month. Forty per cent off."
I take the paper.
She leans in close and kisses me right on the mouth.