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New York Fashion Week was in full sail. But everyone who was anyone was here, in an abandoned hermitage on the lower west side. And they were waiting.
Goscinny Kurosawa was a new kid on the block, fresh out of fashion school with a backwards baseball cap and a portfolio full of balls to the wall nerves of repurposed antique steel. His clothing had it sure. But that wasn’t the reason they were all here. Anna. Diane. Karl. Beyoncé. Miuccia.
Ephemera Tornado outclassed them all. Five foot eleven of Fashion Royalty, she had the respect of the old guard and the adulation of the New. She was a muse, an artist, a wildcat force of nature.
If She was walking for Kurosawa, his star had already risen. And it was the sun.
Backstage all was chaos, yet in the atrium there was a hush. A lull before the storm.
And then she hit.
Hurricane Ephemera in a crimson scrap of nothing that was somehow everything.
Anna removed her sunglasses.
Beyoncé started to cry.
Below the earth, generations of hermits rolled over and over and over in their graves, roused from eternity by a tumble of raven hair and a smile like Christmas morning if your present was nine orgasms and Santa was God himself. Again and again she strode her way through their hearts and souls.
She’d come from nothing, a one-horse town fresh out of hope with a population of nobody gave a shit. Her mother was a waitress, hooking on the side to make rent and her father was anybody’s guess.
Ephemera Tornado never talked about her childhood. “Keep ‘em guessing”, she thought, in her brain where the last vestiges of her accent still clung.
Her air of mystery was only part of the reason she was so adored. Why, at the age of twenty-three she’d been the first Nobel Prize winner for peace and fashion and the recipient of a McArthur Genius Grant for ‘those shoes’. Girl could put an outfit together.
Girl could put a life together. But somehow. Under the platinum and the partying and the lovers and the cohorts and the style. Under the Ephemera, there lurked a little girl. Singing country songs into a spoon and making a single food stamp last the week. For though she was a Tornado, she was still a woman, flawed and weak and looking for a man to lean on. Or if a man was not available, possibly religion or a big tree?
Keep them guessing read the snakeskin cuff encircling her delicate wrist.
And just like that, Fox’s name was made.