Everything about her seemed troublingly pornographic—her matte foundation, her darkly outlined lips, that perfume, the poised stillness of her hands. “Innovative solutions.” “Anatomy of workplace violence.” “Strong objectives.” She wore her hair in a loose chignon, my tiny pearl earrings budding from her earlobes like drops of milk, simultaneously perverse and innocent, I thought. She also wore my white eyelet blouse and a pair of jeans I’d given her. I felt no longing or nostalgia for the clothes.
It's like the protagonist gave her depressed attitude towards capitalist life to Reva, along with her clothes. Like the protagonist is now free from that burden after having been cleansed through her hibernation and by living a less materialistic life. Pretty unrealistic, of course, but realism is not this novel's point anyway.
