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little black dress
She’s the kind of beautiful that demands your full attention.
That’s what you think, when you first lay eyes on her. Even to one not looking, she’d be impossible to miss. You watch, enraptured, as she tosses her hair away from her face and seems to stop time itself. And it’s not as if you don’t know who she is. Everyone has known Kaede Akamatsu from the moment she stepped foot in here.
She catches you watching, holding your gaze, and something within you is set alight.
You just never expected her to look back.
You aren’t brave enough to approach her, but it turns out you don’t have to. Another drink down and she’s next to you, with those eyes still locked on yours. Then Kaede, the Kaede, is smiling at you like there’s no one else in the room, and you have to knock back something harder quickly in order to even begin to form words.
You think she introduces herself, think that she leads the conversation through all the various pleasantries required, but you still aren’t sure of this because soon your mind (and your mouth) are distracted by something far more pleasant.
You’re not sure how or when you get back to your apartment that night, but you are pretty positive it has something to do with the girl who’s lips won’t seem to leave yours and whose hands seem to stray past the allowable places in a public cab.
Neither you nor the driver, his face hazy from the lit cigar not held out of the window often enough, complains much.
You’re a scramble of dark fabric and red lipstick kisses and there’s barely enough left of you sane enough to remember that you keep a spare key under the mat. You think you might glimpse your neighbor’s lights on, but that too might just be the flames licking your heels as you tumble inside, door unable to hold the weight of two people collapsing into it.
There aren’t really any words that have to be spoken even though there’s countless that should be said, but the two of you seem to be communicating just fine without them. Kaede tastes like red wine and smoke and there’s revolution in her eyes, and you’re there, drinking it in like you’d drown otherwise. She’s kissing you and you sure as hell hope that you’re kissing her back, but more than anything, you hope the fire inside of you doesn’t set the whole damn place ablaze.
Then her hand is around your neck and that little black dress is on the floor, and fuck it, who gives a shit if we all go up in flames?
The next morning, the ashes you expect turn out to be nothing more than a bad headache and a rip in the the blonde’s dress. You expect to feel the fire crackling as the Kaede stirs next to you, but she turns away from you in her slumber.
You realize you’re cold.
It’s an hour or so before she yawns, reaching up to rub the sleepiness from her eyes. You think she’s just as lovely in the day, makeup smudged and those loose curls tangled together. She burns softer now, without the influence of alcohol and away from the harsh lights of the club, but when she smiles at you, you wait for the wave of warmth to hit you.
With those eyes trained on yours, though, you shiver.
She stands lazily, grabbing the nearest article of clothing. You think it’s your shirt. After all, her dress is ripped. You make a move to apologize for it, but the girl waves you off without allowing you to finish.
Don’t worry
, she says with a laugh in her voice (you think you hear the fire crackling, even if you feel like ice),
I only wear them once, anyway.
She prances around for a bit like she owns the place, fixing her hair in your mirror even though you think it already looks perfect, and then she leaves with a careless Call me! tossed behind her to appease the roaring in your chest.
You check your phone later and realize you don’t have her number.
You don’t think she has yours, either, but you can’t tell through all the smoke. Your headache’s worse than before and the ice pack and hastily swallowed aspirin do nothing, because you’re already too damn cold inside.
You run into your neighbor as leave for work, and he winks at you conspiratorially, like he’s in on some secret. Didn’t know you swung like that. It’s a joke, you think. Quite the homerun you had, huh?
It’s not like you to flip someone off (you’re typically much more creative), but you think this one was probably justified. The door slams behind you, but you can still hear his laughter, though, so it probably didn’t matter much anyway.
You’re still cold as you lie in bed, and Kaede’s little black dress is still lying on the floor, discarded. She even didn’t bother to take it with her.
One use, one rip, and the whole thing’s over. I only wear them once.
Never did you think you’d be the one to sit on the floor and cry over a rip in a velvet gown, but here you are. You feel like an idiot, of course, but you’re as close to warm as you can get.
The tequila helps too.
It’s the next day when you wake up, velvet fabric tickling your leg, and you realize that you could probably find someone who could fix the hole.
You rush out so quickly that you don’t even notice your neighbor staring at you. Let him find his own place in Hell, anway.
It’s another week before the call comes from the tailor, saying that it’s ready to be picked up, and you’ve almost gotten used to the ice. You’ve made peace with your neighbor after the dent you left in his car with a baseball bat (although, he didn’t find as much poetic irony in that as they should have). There’s been no unknown calls to your phone and you’ve nearly memorized your contacts list, trying to find where Kaede’s name might be, but there isn’t anyone there that shouldn’t be.
The plastic bag crinkles in your hands as you slide the dress out, hands fumbling for where you know you ripped it only to meet smooth fabric. It’s impossibly perfect. The dress itself looks brand new, as it probably was seven nights ago… it would be such a shame to waste it.
And it is Friday night, after all.
You slip into the club like usual, not quite knowing what you’re doing there in black velvet but not quite sober enough to back out. You make your way to the counter and down another for good measure, leaning against the bar to steady your nerves. Scanning the crowd, you tell yourself you’re not looking for anyone over and over, but even the drinks don’t make that seem believable.
Kaede Akamatsu isn’t here.
You’re another shot in when you notice something. It’s warm in here.
Really warm. And the air smells like smoke, but looking around, there’s nothing burning but your own body.
That’s when you see the eyes. Not the eyes that you were looking for, of course. The girl who’s red lipstick still seems to paint your neck even though you’ve washed it over and over is long gone.
But the club is hanging on you like you’re the kind of beautiful that demands attention.
And maybe , you think as you pinch the black fabric a bit with your left hand and catch the eye of a green-haired girl sitting at a table across from you, you are.
[The next morning, when you awake in the bluenette’s apartment and see your dress lying on the floor, you step over it on your way out.
You really should only wear these things once, anyway.]