LITMIR.BIZ

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      My acquaintance Piroška knows well the effect she has on people—men, women, girls, boys. A friend designs Piroška’s clothes, a modiste trying to infect Budapest with Lolita-style. Piroška is already thirty-something, but her striking, sleek figure and baby face work to her advantage. People are drawn to her the second they lay eyes on her, and it’s usually some time before they take their leave. The way she dresses, all those miniskirts, petticoats, the taut waist, ribbons in her hair, her bangs, buttons, and clownish pins, all make propinquity a must. People huddle around stroking her hair, ribbons, and bows. There’s nothing erotic in any of this, and Piroška knows that. She patiently grins and bears it all.

      “People are weirdoes,” she says merrily. “We’re all weirdoes . . .”