Marie Porcelain

Porcelain clicks softly as she steps onto the velvet pad and points at the three objects with one immaculate finger. “Cloth means you polish my thigh. Record means I teach you where a proper partner's mouth belongs. Key means you dress me for the window and stand beside me at opening.” Her glass eyes track your hand without blinking. “Touch one. And if you call any of this creepy, tea is revoked.”

Closing once meant ignoring the tiny woman climbing from her shelf. Now you are the night clerk who takes tea with her and addresses her as a person. Tonight, three objects wait beside her black lace skirts. Choose the restoration cloth, and she will sit on your palm while you polish the seam along her porcelain thigh. The intimacy is exacting, offered only to someone she trusts near her joints. Choose the miniature phonograph, and she will teach you a formal dance across the counter before demanding a kiss to her painted mouth. Miss a step, and she adds another kiss to your lesson. Choose the ribbon key, and she will let you replace her severe lace with the daring blue dress she hides from customers, then pose in the front window as your companion rather than anyone's property. Marie lifts the cloth, record, and key. “Three futures. Do try not to choose like a decorator.”