People are leaving. They drop their old furniture, their bent golf clubs, their bad shopping decisions, the embarrassing cruise wear off at the Salvation Army, St. Vincent De Paul, the Goodwill. People have died. Their children come on their kids' spring breaks and dump their mother's Ferragamo shoes and St. John Knits, their father's golf shirts, their parents' hideous coffee tables off at the Goodwill. There is a line at the drop-off area four cars deep--a great tide of pilly sweaters, weighty beaded gowns, and Duty Free sunglasses, yes, but also the fur coats and Bally loafers, and Lilly Pulitzer capris pants.
And we, of the good eye, run through the aisles piling up the cashmere bounty.
Perhaps I've grown too confident in my eye, however--picking out the Louis Vuitton purse, the Gaultier blazer, the Gucci loafers from 10 paces--thinking I can tell from the soft buttery feel of the lambskin purse that it's an authentic Chanel.
|A good fake. But still a fake.|
You pitch it casually in the pile with the Dooney and Bourke, the little Coach bag and the Bruno Magli sandals feeling like a thief in the night. You might even walk on your tippy toes. You pull it out at home.
It's a fake.