Some Flash-Fiction

The Dress

Put on the dress and twirl around. Hike up the hem and point out your foot. Show him the white pumps with the fake diamonds and say, 'Aren't they just perfect?' Then do another little twirl (you're brimming with excitement and anticipation). He says that he’s never seen anything so beautiful– and you believe him. You believe his words as he holds you tight in front of the mirrors. You look so good together. You wish someone had a camera. He’s so handsome and sweet. He's the man for you. He's the man you've chosen. 

Traditionally, the groom should not be permitted to see the dress. But the two of you don't follow traditions. You're not like other couples. You're unique in the way you do things.

Buy the dress. It's perfect. It's the one.

Now, take the dress out of your closet every day and spread it out on your bed. Touch the beads and the embroidery. Think about your future daughter wearing the same dress. Look in the mirror and imagine what you will look like on your wedding day. It's a pleasant surprise, because all of your pre-wedding muscle shreds and food diets have really paid off. You're so beautiful. You will make such a beautiful bride. Life is going to be so wonderful.

It's the big day. So go ahead, put your dress on for the last time. Put it on slowly. Remember every moment. Tell your Mother and your Sister to leave the room for a few minutes. Tell them that you just need some time alone. They'll understand. After they leave, let yourself fall onto the love-seat (your dress will poof out- making you look like a giant cream-puff). Try to suppress the tears, but then, let them flow. You're scared and dazed and  thrilled and nauseous. You're really doing this. This is really happening.

The wedding goes beautifully. As does the reception. The dress is admired and flaunted again, and again. You catch your man eyeing you, so you give him a seductive smile. You are both thinking the same thing. 

That night, in the hotel suite, he is removing the dress from your body. He is too anxious, and moving too fast. He is fumbling and frantic. One of the buttons on the back of the dress rips off and rolls under the desk that has the phone and the lamp on top. You gasp and plunge to retrieve it. In that moment– the moment is ruined. You try and act like it doesn't matter. “It’s just a button.” you say. “It’s an easy fix.” You try and resuscitate the moment– you rub his bare shoulders as he sits on the edge of the bed– you kiss his neck and his ears. You ask him if he’s too tired– but he doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head and lights a cigarette. 

This is horrible, you think to yourself, It can't be like this. This can't be what's remembered!

Years later, after he has left you– after he has left you and your daughter, you are cleaning out the closet and you come across the dress. You unzip the cover and smell the stale odor of moth-balls. You spread the dress out on your bed. You touch the beads and the embroidery. You look at your daughter, sleeping there on the carpet in front of the television. She is eight years old. The dress has already turned to a shade of yellow that reminds you of French-Vanilla ice-cream. 

She'll never wear this, you think to yourself, not this ugly thing. 

You flip the dress over and notice that a button is missing. Memories that you'd forgotten are now flooding your mind: You remember him putting his pants back on. You remember him going to fill the ice bucket. You remember walking out onto the balcony and throwing that button into the cold dark night. You couldn't see where it fell, but you didn't care. You didn't care about that stupid dress anymore.