Free Yarn by Jon Armstrong

matter." When her mouth tightened into a frown and her eyes got watery, I hastened to add, "But not with the food or you. With me."
    She offered to have the on-duty nurse come and check me and do a full and complimentary gastrointestinal check, but I told her it wasn't like that. "It's memories," I told her. "Memories."

SEATTLEHAMA: PASTEL RUFFLES
    The Black Blossom Shopping Amphitheater and Custom Fashion Art House was a cacophony of competing rhythms, clothing racks, undulating displays, and hundreds of saleswarriors. I found it hard to see anything for the flashing lights, the made-up faces, and the jangle of sounds and conversation.
    We passed a nine-foot-tall chunk of clear ice. Frozen inside was a frilly violet jacket. Kira stopped, eyed me, and then the jacket. I got the feeling she had just copied my head and was now affixing it atop the thing.
    A saleswarrior in tiny white shorts and a dripping wet shirt came toward us. Her orange eyelids accented her huge blue eyes. " My theme is cloud ."
    Gazing at the encased purple jacket, Kira replied, " More than cloud: atmosphere and the passion of the storm ."
    " Take me ," swooned the saleswarrior, " take me to the eye and see me where none have stitched before!"
    The two of them laughed. They had been quoting something. A second later both squinted at me, not undressing but redressing.
    The saleswarrior said, "He's the visage of Warrior Remon of Loin!"
    "With some slight adjustments," Kira agreed.
    In the next moment, I found myself being fitted for that violet jacket. The rich material was stronger and more supple than anything I had ever felt, and once the saleswarrior swirled her fingers over a silvery remote, the sleeves changed length and the shoulders fit perfectly. Kira stepped before me and primped the thick flow of ruffles that spilled down the front. She combed the fringe on the sleeves, buttoned the seven buttons down the front, and then stepped back to take me in. Her pupils seemed large, her lips, thicker. She was breathing fast, her breasts swelling above the neckline of her dress with each inhale.
    Stepping toward me close enough that I could see the powdery luminescence of the browns and gold around her eyes, the colorless fuzz that salted the corners of her mouth, a few tiny red threads in the white of her eyes, she whispered, "High-fashion fornication."
    I didn't know the last word, but the way she snarled it, I guessed. I hadn't seen anyone ever kiss, but had a notion to press my mouth to hers. I leaned close enough to feel the warm atmosphere around her.
    "Warrior Remon!" She pushed me back. "You're not fully dressed!"
    From there we shopped for a shirt, tie, scarf, kerchief, chemise, hose, shoes, slacks, and a man's non-fantasy skivvé.
    At the last booth, Kira told me to sit in a large chair.
    "What for?"
    "We're going to style your face and hair."
    A team of technicians, clinicians, and gender counselors worked me over. My hair was primped; my forehead reshaped, my hands smoothed, and my Adam's apple enlarged with some sort of injection.
    "I don't like this," I complained between pricks and twists.
    "You're done," announced a woman who wore a crown of lights.
    The man in the worm-covered jacket that had been with Kira when we first met stepped before me. Behind him I recognized the man in the giraffe mask. Worm Jacket was gazing at me. "He is Warrior Remon of Loin from Sensitive Dead Penisless Boys."
    Kira held a mirror for me to see. My hair had been lengthened, fluffed, and highlighted with reds. My forehead was taller, which made me look serious, even severe. Somehow my eyes looked twice as wide. My eyelashes were dark and felt heavy when I blinked. My lips had been puffed and felt tender. I looked like a t'up man, like a friend of Vit and Flak.
    Giraffe rocked his mask forward and back. "Beautiful!"
    Worm Jacket raised a fist. "To the buttonhole machine!"
    "First," said Kira with a naughty grin, "I need a fashion fornication coat."
    Both Worm