The Red Dress

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A very personal glimpse of one woman's chaotic headspace.
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Spilled a little cappuccino on my white skirt. The brown stain spreads like a sunspot, an areola. The waiter glances back at my discomfort with a contemptuous smirk. I smile back sharply, an unspoken fuck you. My nails tap impatiently at the green patio table. Don't know what I am waiting for.

Fuck I just bought that skirt, dry clean only.

I have a good view of Richmond Street from my seat on the patio. I take off my shoes to let my bare feet feel the scorching cobblestone. A small man in a gray suit drops a cigarette into his coffee cup and takes a sip. Did that just happen? Shake my head and pull out my own crumpled pack from my small handbag. The smoke halos around my red hair, obscures my features like a murderer in the fog.

Just as I finish the first puff, my cellphone rings, the tinny notes grating on my worn nerves. It's Tom. I ask him how he got this number. He laughs cruelly and demands that I give him back the ring. I say that I lost it down the drain. Hang up before he can call my bluff; this morning I pawned the engagement ring he gave me. Only got twenty dollars.

Five grand my ass, Tommy.

The smell of car exhaust is choking me; air thick with the stench of modern day living. My feet swing freely under the table, and I absently pick at a blue napkin, ripping out little faces, crumple them up. Stub out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray-where is that fucking waiter? Grin at the thought of him and Tom making out late at night in the middle of Victoria Park, unshaven faces rubbing together like the legs of crickets.

A tall blonde woman in a dark red dress interrupts my daydream. Across the street, now crosses to this side. Her legs are smooth, recently waxed. She's probably bald between her thighs. Her lips are pencil thin. Confident words spill out of that mouth, I can tell by the way she carries herself. I look down to my lap at the now set coffee stain.

I wonder if it would show if my skirt was red.

She strides onto the patio, her tall black stilettos clicking off the pavement. Sits at a table opposite mine. She stares straight through me while ordering a double espresso. I notice that the waiter is considerably more polite to her. Take a sip from my now cold cappuccino, as she receives her order. The waiter pointedly ignores me as he passes by. Take perverse pleasure in the thought of hurling the cup at the back of his fastidiously styled head, his blood dancing off concrete.

The woman has noticed my malicious smile. I look down quickly; my illicit fantasy has been observed, invaded.

I glare at the butts littering the clear glass ashtray. Peek up. Good she isn't looking at me any more. Her breasts are firm, not large but still full. Eyes cold grey, filled with dark pooling irises. The dress is cut low at the top. She's wearing a push up bra, black lace fringe poking up under the red fabric. I feel tightness below the silk of my own bra; my nipples are hard, tense. Are hers? I blush at the thought. Oh shit, I hope she didn't see that. I know how red I get when I'm embarrassed.

Or horny.

She reaches down into a slim red handbag. Pulls out a gold cigarette case and takes out a long smoke. Bitch sticks. That's what Tom used to call them. Lights it with a Zippo shaped like a pistol. Cute. Her panties probably have Winnie the Pooh on them. No, they'd definitely match her bra. She's too…complete to be that iconoclastic. The lighter is an anomaly.

A cab tears through a red light on Central ave. Almost hits a young man in a Tommy Hilfiger jacket. He flips the bird to the oblivious cabbie already en route to an unknown destination. Turns his head in the direction of the woman. And myself. I notice the young man has a hard on. Is it the woman, the red dress or the close encounter with mortality that has awakened his desire?

A gauzy image of the woman and i giving this anonymous man a blowjob pops into my head. She focuses on his glans and shaft, while I tackle his shaven balls. Get the skin between his sack and his asshole slick with my spit.

I have lit another cigarette. I don't remember doing so. The woman in red is gone. I feel momentary panic. Wait, she's back. Must have gone to powder her nose.

My relief is startling. So is the cum that has soaked my cotton g-string. The waiter chooses this moment to disrupt my discomfort. Order another cappuccino. He saunters off before I can ask for a fresh ashtray.

Bastard.

The red dress is short and form fitting; if she bent over I could tell if she is wearing a thong or not. Possibly even catch a peek of the fabric. Silk or cotton? Silk. I'm certain of that. She sips on her espresso delicately, licks her lips softly after swallowing. She would do the same after choking down a load of cum. Would not spit it out.

The summer heat is making me sweat. My yellow tank is stained under the armpits. Stuck tight to my back. The woman looks as if she walked off the set of a deodorant commercial; cool and dry like arctic tundra.

Our eyes lock.

It's as if she can read my thought, my desires. She pulls a wayward tuft of blonde hair put of her face. Her lips curl at the side slightly into a sensuous smile. My smoke has burned down to the filter. I toss the scorched butt onto the ground.

Fuck the ashtray.

Want to get up, walk over to her table. She will ask if I would like to have a seat. I accept her offer. As I am getting seated, our hands will accidentally brush together, and the sexual current that flows is pure primal electricity. Makes me want to taste her lipstick, her mouth, her pussy. We will languish in the small comfort of small talk for a few anguished minutes. Then I will casually ask her if she would like to come back to my apartment. I expect her to be taken aback by my boldness.

She smiles and asks if I live close to here.

The image is shattered like glass by the appearance of a solid, well-groomed man at her table. She flashes a huge come-fuck-me grin at him. Stands up. They kiss greedily, shamelessly.

Of course a woman like her wouldn't be drinking espresso alone.

The waiter brings me my now forgotten second cappuccino. I pay for both, gather my things and get up. I turn to leave, but at the last second I decide to walk over to their table. They don't notice me at first, caught in a moment only lovers know.

'Excuse me', I say timidly.

'Yes?'

Her voice is thick, sensual, like caramel.

'Where did you get that dress?'

The woman looks at my round face, at my set in eyes.

'I bought it from a small shop just north of here. The west side of Richmond by Pall Mall Street.'

The statement is dismissive. I thank her and apologize for bothering her and her…friend. She gives me one last look, and I leave.

Down the street from the coffee shop, a young girl with greasy unwashed hair is hunched over, seated with her back against a convenience store wall. A small, battered paper plate with coins scattered over it sits in front of her. She is buried under pounds of heavy clothing, even though it is sweltering outside. Wonder if she is still alive.

As I pass by I reach into my purse and pull out some small change. The coins clink onto the plate. Don't care if she appreciates my tiny bit of charity. Walking away, I hear a world weary voice, jaded well before its time.

'She wanted you, too.'

Startled, I look back. The girl is gone. Was she ever really there?

Disturbed and strangely aroused once more, I run back in the direction of the coffee shop, not caring how ridiculous I look. Stumble onto the patio; almost fall on my face.

The woman in the red dress and her male companion are no longer there. I ask the waiter what direction they left in. He glares at me warily and threatens to call the police. I retreat, proverbial tail between my legs. I am ashamed of my brashness.

I feel consumed by the memory of the woman. Her legs…and what was in-between them; what I never knew.

Walk unconsciously in the direction of the store. She didn't tell me its name. Or hers. Find myself floating down the street, my thoughts a violent kaleidoscope. As I reach Pall Mall I see the dress in a window display. I gasp, losing my breath then catching it.

Enter the door, wind chimes singing above the entrance.

'Can I help you?'

The salesgirls' offer of assistance is terse, insincere, and yet I accept it.

'Yes, I would like to try on the red dress in the window.'

She looks at me as if I asked her to lick my ass. Sorry honey, you're not my type.

'It's very expensive,' she sniffs.

I look her square in the eyes.

'I have money.' The cold lie is empowering.

The salesgirl stalks over to the display, takes down the red dress.

'You have to leave your bag with me.'

The haughty smirk on her face would have bothered me earlier; I shrug indifferently and pass her my purse. She hands me the dress; unlocks the change room door.

I walk in, surrounded by distorted images of myself, holding the red dress. Mirrors cover all four walls of the small cubical. Hang up the dress slip off the tank top; unzip my skirt. They fall to the floor, like shed skin. I step out of the pile of clothes, smile a thousand times. I look deranged in my half naked ecstasy. I am a new creature, a secular goddess reborn in multiple brazen images.

I unhook my bra; add it to the rest of my clothing. My breasts are large, full, like melons. Nipples solid, freed from frilly restraint. I pinch hard. The pain sends icy sensation throughout my nervous system. I am glowing like a phoenix, white hot.

Stick one finger below the hem of my panties. Navigate through the trimmed pubic hair. I am drenched, sopping. I take the dress from its wire hanger; place it over my head. Glides on like a condom and merges with my flesh. I am the woman at the coffee shop: confident, apathetic to judgment and evaluation.

My desire is a raging tiger; feline intensity makes me purr.

Reach up below the dress and draw aside my thong. My fingers play my pussy like a violin, sweet music enveloping the shop. They travel from my clit to my ass, leaving no space untouched between. Shove in one finger, then two; finally my entire hand is up my cunt, prompting a low moan to escape my mouth. Every inch of my frame becomes an erogenous zone. Each mundane occurrence from the past few hours now seems intensely erotic.

I am shameless, proud of my deviance.

The salesgirl knocks on the thin door, asks if I'm all right. Her voice seems miles, years away. I am too intent on quenching the thirst of my lust to pay attention to her shrill suspicion. I sense the heat coming to a boil, overflowing onto the carpeting. Drowns the store and the coffee shop; washes away the waiter and his condescension. Even the memory of Tom is submerged beneath the crushing wake of my release. My body is numb; my power is wholly spent.

The red dress is soaked.

Pull it over my head, hang it back up. Retrieve my bunched up outfit from the floor. Dressed in my own clothes again, I exit the change room. The salesgirl intercepts me before I can make my escape. She hands me my bag.

'So how did the dress fit? Do you want to purchase it?'

A measured smile spreads across my face before I reply.

'I'm sorry. It's just not me.'

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