Lately, she had taken a liking to the deli. She'd walk past with her cane and placing it before her, lean on it and stare at the display of gourmet meats. A vicarious experience, imagining the taste of salami and tender veal and the various selection of premium smoked hams and German favourites. It was a sight for very, very sore eyes.

One day, with the courage of a lion, she walked in. A small echo sounded before and after each footfall, for the careful listener, which assisted in lending to her that most peculiar charm she wielded. Another facet to the costume.


Patiently she waited before the display. Rows and rows of meats before her, or sausages with yellowed twine hanging from racks. The fetid fragrance of raw meat settled over her, a shock to the nose in its culmination and contrast to the fresh breeze outside the door, that mixed with the smell of soap and other suppressants. She heard the slap of flesh in the preparation room then, and if she had been of a different trend, it might have illicited provocation, and her heading behind the counter to explore or nip a treat. But as she was not so inclined, there she was, tall and trendy, whistling a merry tune, head bowed to one side, hot-pink gloves holding down her cane as she had her first indulgent experience in this new city; she'd have to buy pickles and olives too! With a nod to herself at that, giving a tick at the thought, ambrosian delight shadowed her nude-coloured mouth.

"I don't know I'd like ocean fodder for supper, and in a cake, it sounds absurd!", in fact, loath be it known, the idea horrified! Sol gave a polite shake of the head, which sent curls loosened from her French-knot, careening across a shoulder from beneath her sueve gentleman's hat.

"Do tell me, do you do banquet trays? I should like a selection", gesturing with a hand.

A chipper smile appeared and she bowed, grandly, and then lifted her face and winked once, with all the pale, delayed humour of Marcel Marceau. And then, dazzled by the variety she let her gaze wander across the greater area she'd not seen, in being so engrossed by slaughtered cow, pig, etcetera etcetera.

"Well, well well, Poe would appreciate I am sure", remarked under her breath, her expression distant.

And suddenly, violet eyes were upon Rosie.

"A picnic basket, can I add one of those too? In a garden with a deadman I won't go to the enth degree, he'll appreciate my keeping his memory aloft well-enough"

A broad smile, and then it was gone, and staccato foot steps continued about the front section of the Deli, hands behind her, twirling that jazzy cane like a pro, as she trilled that merry tune, taking off from where she'd paused when Rosie had come along.

The clown took a deep breath in. Pleased, and most enticed, she placed a hand to her heart and let out the smallest of sighs. Once recovered, she asserted herself against the curve of the glass cabinet in a sinewy movement so that she was arced against it, cordially.

"It looks, sounds, is sublime. You can pop it down for Poe"

Eyes slid skywards and she winked once. Maybe, somewhere, a comet zig-zagged and a star winked back.

"How much and when ready?"

To the point, her voice so-like Katherine Hepburn it was uncanny, sent a shiver up her own spine.

A step back, straight-backed, Sol lifted the cane in an elegant manuever, swiveled it once, and pointed it towards one of the baskets on display, appraising it as she hoiked it up by its handle.

"I'll have this one"