“Are you sure you want to wear that?” I asked as she emerged from her bedroom.
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”
“You’re the artist. Shouldn’t the gallery have assigned a stylist to design you an outfit and take you somewhere fancy to get your hair done or something?”
“That only happens in the movies,” she assured me, picking up the chainsaw. “Besides, they’ll be expecting me to wear something unusual that makes me stand out. If I wore a black trash bag for a dress, they’d call me fashionable. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”
I shrugged. “At least you’re bold enough to wear that thing more than once.”
“I won’t be after tonight,” she said, checking to see that there was fuel in the tank. “I’m doing a demonstration at six.” My best friend’s artfully shredded canvases splattered with paint that had been sloshed onto a running chainsaw were being exhibited at a downtown gallery. It was opening night.
I shook my head at her. “I hope everyone who shows up decides to wear the bridesmaid dress they swore they’d never put on again.”
She laughed. “Maybe I should reconsider the trash bag.”
|Writing Prompt #87|