sidda quayle.

Sidda felt the sagging fabric, rubbed it between her fingers. She sniffed the musty lace and holey velvet. She held it close.
The woman who'd let her in sat on a velveteen stool, tinkering with a necklace of gaudy costume jewels. The fake diamonds glittered. One slid to the end of the string, away from the others, held to the wire only by a small metal clasp. The woman gently pushed the jewel back in place. A cigarette burned in a teacup next to her. Leathery lips spoke first; Sidda's hair tickled at the woman's voice.
"Silk feels warm, to me. The thin lushness, the dew of the fabric, slides cleanly and feels close. It slips so softly, it's as if it weren't there," she said, pausing to take a long drag from the cigarette nub. The bright end burned close. "Have you ever frayed silk before? The fibers mesh tight. It's like they're inseparable. When you catch a thread, though," she paused, tinkling the glass jewels together, "it splits quickly and smoothly, leaving the others to fray slowly. Take the first, and the rest are sure to feather." Her dark nails scratched the teacup where the cigarette lay, burned out. The woman flicked ash from her fingertips, then placed the necklace delicately on the counter.
The door tinkled as it opened. A thin, dirty man stepped through the doorway, holding a paper bag stained with oily wetness. "Ronald," the woman nodded. The man nodded back, then noticed Sidda. He glanced at her, then moved toward the counter where the old woman sat.
She reached under the table, pulling a small metal box to the tabletop. The dusty light glinted off the face of the box. The man called Ronald reached for the box, but the woman's weathered hand reached out and stopped him. After a minute of silence, Ronald leaned into her ear, murmured, then placed the box in his coat pocket. Turning to leave, Ronald lingered near Sidda before jingling the door.
Sidda let the worn velvet ripple out of her hands.