She had somehow managed to get rid of her nasal voice as well as whatever it was she had always been chewing on. Maybe there was a connection there.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
I had on what I considered to be one of my spiffier outfits. The stripes on the pants were two inches wide and alternated yellow and light green, while the tunic was a brilliant red and purple paisley number.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s just say it’s a bit on the garish side.”
“You didn’t say anything about my clothes before.”
“Right. Before. As in ‘before we decided to be friends.’ Molls don’t stay employed by telling their men how tacky they dress. Sometimes I think one of the qualifications for having a decorative lady on your arm is to have no or negative clothes sense.”
“Of course, I don’t have much firsthand knowledge, but aren’t there a few molls who dress a little flamboyantly themselves?” I said archly.
“True. But I’ll bet if you checked into it, they’re wearing outfits their men bought for them to dress up in. When we went shopping, you let me do the selecting and just picked up the bill. A lot of men figure if they’re paying the fare, they should have the final say as to what their baby-doll wears. Let’s face it, molls have to pay attention to how they look because their jobs depend on it. A girl who dresses like a sack of potatoes doesn’t find work as a moll.”
“So you’re saying I dress like a sack of potatoes?”
“If a sack looked like you, it would knock the eyes out of the potatoes.”