Wake Up With a Stranger

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We have this young woman, this Donna Buchanan, who awakened one morning in a room in a house in Midland City, a certain kind of person with a certain kind of day ahead of her.

At first, immediately after opening her eyes, she had a feeling that it was very late and that she would have to get up at once and go down to the shop in which she worked. Then, with increasing awareness of which day it was, she remembered that it was Sunday and that it would not be necessary to get up until she chose, or to go anywhere at all. With this established — the day and the limits of its claims upon her — she was prepared to establish also in her mind the significant sequence of events which had determined that she should awaken here and now instead of somewhere else at another time.

To start with, she thought, there was the sale of the original peau de soie with the bouffant skirt. I designed it myself and made it myself and sold it myself to no one but Mrs. William Walter Tyler, Queen Harriet herself, the snotty bitch, but I’ll have to hand it to her that she’s got the body to wear it and get away with it, not all points and edges like some of them. It was the sheerest bit of good luck that the gown was available when she stopped in the shop, just finished and hanging on the rack in the back room as if it were made for her and meant for her from the beginning. But even so, even with such a beautiful chance to show it for the first time, I almost didn’t do it because I was afraid. I was afraid she wouldn’t like it — and if she hadn’t, if she’d rejected it, I’d have hated her guts, I swear to God I’d have scratched her eyes out. But I needn’t have been afraid at all as it turned out, because she liked it and bought it, and this is much more important than might at first be apparent.

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