Free Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love by Maryrose Wood Page B

enemy terrain, Matthew and I step into the crosswalk, on our way to the Upper East Side brownstone of Miss Dervish Greenstream.
    A yellow cab turns through the intersection way too fast, skidding through puddles six inches behind us. Matthew shouts over the street noise, “Are you getting wet?”
    I huddle closer under his umbrella. It’s pouring rain and I’m lugging an overnight bag, because after our interview with Miss Greenstream I’m off to a weekend visit with my dad and Laura. I remembered to pack my pajamas, my toothbrush, my skin-care products, two outfits for Sunday, because who knows which one I’ll be in the mood for, my notebook, my favorite pen, my other favorite pen, my French tapes, a choice of books (one trashy, one lit’rature), and some dog treats for Moose, their dog. The umbrella I forgot.
    “I’m fine,” I yell back. And who wouldn’t be, sharing an umbrella with Matthew Maybe-he’s-not-perfect-but-I-STILL-love-him Dwyer?
    From the outside, 267 East Eighty-fourth Street looks much like all the other fancy brownstone houses on this posh New York City block. We climb the steep stone steps and stand in front of immense, black-painted double wooden doors, their panes of milky glass etched with interlocking, spiraling designs.
    Matthew rings the bell. “Look,” he says, touching his fingertip to the glass. “A double helix.”
    Before I can say anything in response, the great wooden doors open, and we get our first look at Miss Dervish Greenstream.
    “Matthew! Felicia! Come in!” she says, like an old friend. “I’ve been expecting you.”
    After hanging our wet coats in the downstairs bathroom and leaving Matthew’s soggy umbrella in an urn shaped like an elephant’s foot (which Jacob later told us WAS an elephant’s foot, how gross is that?), we follow Dervish upstairs.
    The hall leading to the music room is dark, and the scent of sandalwood is everywhere. We sidestep past a dozen strange black suitcases, each in the unexpected shape of an exclamation point: long and narrow with a bulb on the end. The suitcases are well worn and well traveled, covered with baggage claim stickers and labeled FRAGILE in every conceivable language.
    Inside, Jacob is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his sitar in his lap. One look at the long-necked instrument, its metal strings leading down to a small, round body made of an actual gourd, and I realize those exclamation-point suitcases must be sitar cases.
    Jacob is chanting something that sounds sort of Morse code-y: “DA din-din da, DA din-din da, DA tin-tin ta, te-te tin-tin da . . .”
    “Good, Shashti,” says Dervish, pushing aside a gauzy curtain so we can enter. “A little faster now.”
    Jacob chants faster. The music room has beautiful French doors at one end and two enormous, multipaned windows at the other, overlooking a garden. The walls are painted a dark, glossy maroon and hung with tapestries, all embroidered with scenes from Hindu mythology.
    Dervish sees me looking at the tapestries. “Those depict Tara,” she explains. “The great mother, who reminds us to be still and look within.”
    I, of course, know all about this Goddess-Archetype-Within-That’s-Inside-Me, but now does not seem the time to show off my grasp of the esoteric. Dervish smiles and gestures for us to sit. There are no chairs, but the floor is layered with patterned carpets and many large, lavishly embroidered pillows. The walls, the tapestries, the carpets, the pillows—everything is saturated with color and design. Vivid gold against dark purple, saffron orange, deep midnight blue, with bits of sparkling mirror woven into the fabrics.
    Dervish folds herself neatly onto a pillow. In contrast to the kaleidoscopic surroundings, she wears a plain white T-shirt and a pair of baggy acid-wash jeans, which strike me as a bit 1980s, to tell the truth. Her gray-blond hair is cut in a neat bob, and she would not seem out of place shopping at Bloomingdale’s. “Shashti