She had to give him that: the salesman was good ... damned good.

Always reserved - if not eyes-lowered shyness, meaning she was the one who never, ever got into trouble; a good, well-maintained mind; a near-pathological level of responsibility, dependability, and similar 'bilities - always the friend called when others were in trouble; a smoldering undercurrent of sensuality that (so far) only appeared in the deliberate, luxurious savoring of whatever it was she ate, and a secret love of the sliding sensuality of new sheets on her small bed - was why Pakuna was there, that day, being convinced by the very good salesman.

"With this," he said, running his dark hands over the even darker ... no, not quite even darker... It was black as a sky without stars, a spilled liquid pool of fabric, "you have to empty your closets. Throw it all away ... every little bit of it: no dresses, blouses, tights or even bras. Give them away to friends, throw them into the street - oh, sure, you might want to keep"―a theatrical throat-clearing―"your 'unmentionables' but, to be honest, you won't even be needing those."

Pakuna nodded, the same way she'd been nodding since walking in. Even though the street beyond was more than bustling that morning she was the only person - aside from the salesman - there. Reserved, responsible, secretly sensual ... there was a lot people could, and did, say about Pakuna, but being an early adopter wasn't one of them. That she was there would have raised more than a few eyebrows for those curious enough to notice.

"I love this part," the salesman said in a theatrical whisper, waving his hand over the even-darker-than-himself material. As he waved, the fabric changed: dark becoming a vibratingly bright spectrum of colors; painfully violet (touching perhaps on the ultra), then indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and more brilliant than any sunset, red. But color wasn't the only change. As he waved his magician's hand, the fabric changed texture as well: shimmering silk to satin; thick black leather to gleaming latex; comfortable cotton to taffeta ... and everything beyond and between them all.

"Of course this a demo sheet ... hooked up to a viral memory stack under the table here so it can run through its tricks. The final is mated to a standard cortical interface with a non-mnemonic wireless connection. In fact, it uses the wearer's normal wetware as a supplantive memory store, in addition to accessing the occipital cortex it has an advanced interface with the amygdalae, anterior thalamic nuclei, and limbic cortex..." He seemed to lose focus for a moment, absent for a brief second in the wonder of the product he was selling. "We like to say it'll not just become whatever you want ... but know what you want, before you know it yourself."

Being connected wasn't a problem. For Pakuna it was as familiar as her having a big toe - she couldn't imagine ... well, like a lot of people her age, she simply couldn't imagine what it would be like to be disconnected from knowing whatever she wanted to know, when she needed to know it. It was just ... what life was: to have it there, within mental reach, to find out her salesman's name, his public persona, any and all information about the development history, critiques and praises, fans and nose-upturners.

In the scant moments she was able to mentally peer beyond the salesman's seductive patter, she saw confusion as to what had allured her through the front doors. Dependable, reliable ... whimsy and impulse were alien to her. But she'd been drawn in nonetheless: pulled in by a glimpse inside.

He was saying something - but Pakuna wasn't listening. Before she was even consciously aware of it her hand went to the table, steadily hovering a few centimeters above the smartcloth as it performed its colorful and textural tricks.

Then, a dark - but not even-darker - part of the rolling sea of brilliant spectrums and cascading surfaces rose slowly up to meet her, matching perfectly the length and thickness of her fingers, the width and contours of her hand. The touch was so light, so furtive that a part of her doubted that it had even occurred.

The salesman was still talking - but Pakuna wasn't listening.

"I'll take it," she said.