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She turned and stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a thin rectangle of silver on the wall.
Wearing the dress, she wondered at the depth of his regard.
She was covered entirely in a fabric chosen to match the colour of her skin, a delicate soft lace, translucent between its intricacies and therefore displaying her actual skin beneath, her arms, her legs, her sternum, her entire back. Beneath the lace was a shift of the same colour shaped to cover her breasts and reaching down to stop just mid-thigh; the shift was attached beneath the lace overlay with golden thread in embroidered patterns—mirroring the swirls in the lace—which increased with intricacy and frequency the closer the embroidery reached her waist. The lace reached the floor, but barely, and a slit in the middle allowed easy movement, but also showcased the fluttering of the embroidered edges of the slit, as well as framed her legs in their movement, hiding them in her repose.
The dress, as a whole, was like a mere veil: no line seemed out of place, no shape too strange or distracting, only to showcase the underneath: all for the accommodation and artistic presentation of her figure.
So while the lace covered her arms down to bunch delicately at the wrists, and reached up to the base of her neck—a tiny delicate peel of a collar as the top edge of the lace curled out—she still felt nude and visible, barely concealed, and yet her body seemed only a hint. A suggestion.
She imagined the expense of such a dress was something beyond fathoming, so she tried to push away her discomfort as to its price.
Then again, he was an expert tailor and still sewed all his own clothes—so the cost likely consisted of the materials. And his sweat. And perhaps even his blood at the prick of a needle.
No, she thought, he was too careful.
She thought of all the times she sat with him in the late evening—or deep in the night—to watch him sew, and then she’d pick up a needle and thread of her own to try and match his method, to practice the art of yet another hand-borne skill (as though cleaning conduits wasn’t enough labour for her fingers, cramped as they often felt after her work). And how many times had she then pricked her finger on the other side of the fabric, not anticipating the needle’s placement?
She’d make a sound, not quite a gasp, but an in-take of breath and he’d be at her side, somehow still managing to surprise her.
“Look what you’ve done,” he’d say it like a statement in a concerned tone, taking hold of her hand with the injured finger as though every time it happened was the first, or he’d say “you’ve hurt yourself.” And he’d wear a serious expression, but not without a hint of pleasure, because then he’d leave and return with first-aid supplies, and then he’d take great care in disinfecting, cleaning, and bandaging the tiny wound, just the barest touch of his own hand like a conflagration.
“You’re sewing has improved,” he’d say, and he wasn’t wrong, but he always said it after such an episode, repeated over time, because it was a skill she was learning by slow degrees, too impatient to perfect the stitches with quick and precise efficiency. And she was never quite sure what he was really saying behind those words.
“Not that you need to learn,” he’d let his smile bloom then, as though catching her out in some kind of lie and relishing in bringing it all out into the open.
“I like sitting with you,” she’d sometimes respond after such an episode, because she wanted him to know that she really did like those nighttime moments, in the shadowy, low-lit room, on the couches or at the table, watching him or working alongside him, headless of sleep; pretending that their reality at such moments was a very good dream and she was intent on committing the dream to memory.
Nothing lasts forever: this was a mantra she seemed intent on telling herself. She wasn’t sure where the words spawned from, perhaps from the life she could no longer remember, somehow willowing up out of their dark recesses buried beneath the impenetrable vault of her mind. And there was something about this man, too, that seemed ephemeral, like the wing of an insect, substantial but gauzy, never quite clear and certain as it moved, understated and distanced—just as he drew near, too.
Back in the present, a shiver ran over her as she gazed at her reflection, her eyes meeting her eyes in the mirror.
If he was a spectre, then so was she.
That’s this dress, she thought, and then spun, watching the delicate easy swish of the lace.
All at once she wished to have him here in her room so she wouldn’t have to imagine the way she wished he’d peel her out of the dress, important diplomatic events forgotten.
He was always slow and deliberate.
That’s when the worst thought crept unbidden into her mind—an idea she seldom considered, but sometimes it appeared, beckoning to be heard. Something like this dress, it was all just a method: he thinks something like this is appeasing you; at the end of the day, you’re just willing flesh, and he’s going through these motions all for that willingness alone.
She turned away from the mirror, one hand clenching the other.
Such a thought was unfair, she knew it was.
Still, her mind held that sense of inevitability: one day something would change. She’s a distraction for him, just a body—a body they both took pleasure from, but also replaceable (for him).
Many times she had wondered if she stayed because, if she left, she had no sense of where to go. But no, she determined, she was strong and capable—she’d received transfer notices or recommendations numerous times, she just chose not to accept them; she would find a place somewhere, anywhere, if necessary. Somehow, deep down, she knew she was capable of being alone, expected it, anticipated it even.
That’s what you were born for….
And if she were to tell him that, she’d expect him to smile into the distance and say something to the effect of “isn’t that what everyone’s born for?”
That’s when she realized, standing in the middle of the empty grey room in that immaculate generous gown, not the depth of his regard, but the depth of her inability to see beyond what she wished was his regard.
Maybe she should take off the dress, hurry and pack her things, and leave—quickly!
She was to meet him there.
But no, as soon as the guests began pouring through the doors, he’d note her absence.
Then another part of her imagined hiding so he’d have to leave and find her, and wouldn’t that lead to a delicious assortment of consequences? But this was an important event for the Federation and its diplomatic envoys. His presence was necessary and she’d be selfish and childish to try and distract him from his work so they could play.
So that she could somehow convince herself that he would look for her, find her, and use her flesh to consummate her feelings—beyond the mere sensations, but oh they all tended to cross boundaries.
How many times, pleading like a whisper, had she hoped she hadn’t told him the limitless love she felt for him, too consuming to think about—let alone speak of—outside of those moments.
He probably considered such moments a symptom of the pleasure. A symptom of intoxicated nerves and rushing endorphins. And perhaps he’d be right, except that she knew he wasn’t, if that’s indeed what he’d think.
She smiled back at her image in the mirror and left the room for her final preparations.