A micro-story for mature readers.
where did it come from?
how did she get it?
was it a thrift shop find? a hand-me-down? new? at one time or another? he never asked her, and preferred to be led along by the mystery.
he assumed it was forged in the fires of some ancient volcano, by slaves to an oft-held tenet. bandana-clad, their sweaty muscles glistened against the reflected light of the red-hot lava, weaving each fabric by hand. real work, no chit-chat. all the while the ground was in a constant state of convulsion, no one standing evenly, the infernal lake spitting. hundreds of casualties. but an ever-rotating assembly line of devotees, worshippers to the cause, the fashioning of this edifice to one day adorn its true, rightful owner. in truth he had seen it in a shop window of his youth, on display to the world like Excalibur before King Arthur. this was twelve years prior, wandering around downtown in an adolescent slumber it graced a model far slimmer and gawkier than the reality was to be. but as the boy took the moment offered from that day to stare at the mannequin and bask in the implications of its teen-aged fantasy, he knew that this would be it. this was the dress that his love would wear, whether or not he had to be the one to buy it for her. he remembered the cross-street, the landmarks, the number on the curb, “come on, we’re going to miss the show!” and the dream retreated to folklore for the first time.
then one afternoon, under the warm white of the bathroom light she asked out-loud if that’s what she should be wearing. her friend chirped up, “maybe that isn’t appropriate for a wedding.” he turned and looked, and there it was again. it nestled her curves like cosseting and the hemline was too high, she would have to wear leggings or stockings to hide the loaded weapons that were her thick, violent thighs. rooted to wherever she stood by the stalks of her feet, the resolve of her intensity, the ivy webbing of her tattoos that followed her veins like nerves down her legs to the base of their trunks. she was beautiful, and the dress was hers. “yeah, you’re right.” exit stage left. in a matter of seconds, it had gone again. a legend, bonded by time, its myth further etched by those who were there. he had never forgotten. in that moment, two years ago, he wanted nothing more than to see her wear that dress again, enunciated by his own flourishes of course, the sheer stockings, sneakers, she didn’t like sneakers with stockings. he told her it’s not for you, it’s for me. “what is it we’re doing again?” dinner and a tub. “just dinner? i’ll look silly.” no you won’t, not to me. “well i’m not wearing those fucking shoes.” wear whatever damned shoes you want, just show up to the restaurant in the dress. i want to see you in it again, her baby cheeks were beat-pink from the exclamation.
it is dusk now. she arrives and steps out of the car. she’s wearing dark knee-high boots over the nylons and she looks like Rose McGowan from Planet Terror with a machine gun for a stump, and all he can think about are tearing those boots off and dragging his tongue across the metal barrels of her shaved ordnance. she looked dangerous, and she was his. you look amazing. “thank you.” the restaurant was attached to the hotel and it was just a short walk from the exit down the esplanade to the elevator, that would take them up to the third floor and the jacuzzi room he had rented for the night. it was a shame, that it was only for one night, but he was determined to make the best of the situation. too many times before he had squandered his chances to go slow, to enjoy himself, to not think so much. all he could think about now was the dress, and how to stop himself from jumping over the table, cornering her in the hall, taking her freckled cheeks into the palms of his hands and stare into her steely blue eyes and kiss her cracked, puffy lips. to tell her he wants her. he cannot stop looking at her and her heaving d-cup bosom. she notices. she notices the whole dinner. “what are you looking at?” you. “why?” because i want to memorize you. “i’m not a photograph.” she wasn’t used to be stared at, not even out of love, not even out of kindness. it was foreign, this devout attention, the kind she used to relinquish freely and now held steadfast as a barrier between her and anything that could be used to hurt her. men had hurt her before, men who had also told her how beautiful she was, how much they wanted their hands on her. he couldn’t be that man if he tried. and she noticed, and it heightened the mystery of their mutual infatuation even greater.
they leave the restaurant and he takes her hand in his. she is receding. he looks around quickly to see if there’s anyone watching and there is not. he backs her into the wall with a thud, and her eyes shoot open and stare back in to his for the first time. all i do is think about you. all the time. i can’t stop. “why?” because i love you. “why?” because even after all this time, you still wore the dress for me.
she is out of the dress now, standing over the bathtub he is already submerged in, cradled by bubbles and the warmth of the water, and now he needs her weight, her brown hair draped over his chest, every bend and turn of her body finding respite in his like perfectly-fitting puzzle pieces. he watched her undress, slipping the straps off of her shoulders, sliding the stretched bodice below her breasts and then down, further, over her belly, her hips, taking her underwear with her. as they lay in the tub he holds her tight. and her dress lays on the floor, crackling droplets from the percolated water dousing its embers, a desire fulfilled. a dream come to life, no more. he only hopes it is enough.
//jf 11.14.2020
theory of a daskeman 