May 20, 2015 1 Comment
‘Wherever,’ she says, bouncing from bed back to dresser. ‘Just put it down and help me choose. We’re running out of time!’
She’s a whirlwind of skin (tanned and mesmerizing) and underwear (silk pink panties and bra), already in her heels (mouth watering YSL numbers that are barely more than four thin straps: ankle, toe, one joining these, and one linking ankle to heel along the Achilles, combining to draw a direct line, in leather, to fetish. Somehow the shoe makes the foot seem more naked than if it were bare.)
The bed is covered with clothes, mainly dresses; others have already been discarded to the floor.
‘What about that blue one?” I ask.
‘That old thing? It’s a smart event, dear. I can’t show up in a drab old rag like that—God,’ she looks at her phone, ‘we have to leave. We’re late already.’
‘I still have to do my make up, and hello! I have literally nothing to wear.’
‘What about that polka dot one?’
‘That’s a summer dress, sweetheart. Most of these are. Half my winter and fall clothes are still under the bed, messily folded and probably half molded. It was so God damn hot this summer. Really. Just ridiculous—and look at you. You’re dressed already, shiny shoes and all!’
‘Just had to shave and step into my good old suit.’
‘And you look great. So dashing. Man, that suit is so well tailored.’
She looks beyond great, exactly like this, a little frazzled without a dress, dancing all that skin around the room. She could not look better.
She slips into a gray skirt, then an aubergine blouse, looking in the mirror with one foot forward, tilting her head. ‘God, why is everything so wrinkled?’
She’s out of both in ten seconds, now yanks an olive green dress off a hanger. She shoves one leg violently into it, and then the other.
‘That’s a winner,’ I say.
‘Seriously? You like me this dumpy?’ She strips more ferociously still. ‘Christ! Nothing fits anymore. Too much of your mother’s gnocchi.’ She sits on the bed, palms in eye-sockets, staring blindly up at an invisible God. ‘I’m gonna lose it. I swear, I’m gonna lose my shit.’
‘How about the jumpsuit?’ I say.
‘The cream jumpsuit.’
‘The jumpsuit! Of course!’ She’s into the dresser headfirst, like vulture into carcass. She emerges triumphant and climbs right in.
‘No wrinkles,’ I say, smiling. ‘No mold.’
‘You don’t think it’s too pale? Too light for the season?’
‘No. It’s perfect. Matches the fall foliage.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she says, passing a final test in the mirror.
She looks incredible, though I already miss her naked legs, her stomach and her thighs. But this outfit accentuates that charming neck, those smooth arms, her sleek, delicious length, and the cleavage, downplayed just enough to provoke.
‘I did it, honey,’ she says sarcastically. ‘I found something to wear tonight! Let’s celebrate—oh, where’s that drink?’
I hand it to her.
‘Oh Campari soda, red goddess, come to me.’ She grabs it greedily. ‘You bitter jewel, you ruby bitch. How I need you now!’ She takes a small sip, speaking again as she does: ‘thank God for this jumpsuit. Can’t believe it was the only thing that would get the job done! Literally the only thing I could possibly wear tonight.’
She smiles that preposterously enticing smile, her first in the last hour, then takes a bigger gulp, not quite connecting with her mouth. The drink spills down her chest.
Ugly ochre stains.
By E.M. Vireo