At a quarter of seven J.L. tottered into his living room. He was fully dressed except for a bright red sash hanging slack, like a sail in the doldrums, just brushing the tops of his patent leather shoes.
Dressing was a nerve-jarring, thirst-making business. He was in full sympathy with the need for changing men's styles so frequently, but those overpaid designers could surely dream up easier outfits to get into.
He separated a decanter of bourbon from its fellows on the mirror-backed shelves and from it poured a lavish helping. Using the tip of his index finger, he twirled the ice cubes and, with a sigh, lifted the golden fluid to his lips.
Over the rim of the glass he saw Glory come floating into view. She was dressed, mostly below the waist, in yards of a light gauzy fabric that seemed to have life of its own.
She stopped at the door while her eyes slowly swept the room. J.L. was reminded of a spider making sure the web would be cosy. Her glance came to rest on the portly figure of her father.
She exhaled a sigh of controlled exasperation. "Daddy, your sash is hanging. It looks like a flag at half mast."
"I am perfectly aware that my sash is hanging." He wasn't sure he approved of the tone of her voice.
"Well tuck it up then. Ernie will be here any minute."
"It refuses to stay up. How do you know? Maybe it is supposed to hang. Those designers should be forced to dress themselves in these things before they loose them on an unsuspecting public."
She glided towards him and, with a few deft touches, the sash was neatly in place. "Dad, promise you'll be nice to him."