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Aubergine St. Valentine stared into the mirror. It was a bad day when your caftan didn't fit. The Queen of Romance did not wear a tailored caftan, that was for the older romance ladies with flaws to smooth over. A caftan, if the Queen should choose to wear one, should be gossamer and float lightly around her flawless torso.
And where was her flawless king? Why out gallivanting around and and flaunting his flawless torso in front of a caterwauling horde who thought his exercise tape was the new bible for fitness and right living. He couldn't stay home long enough to listen to his wife, who had only his best interests at heart, tell him a secret. The secret that put her in this big purple blob shaped thing called, euphemistically, a caftan. Tent more like.
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