The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

  “Persistent dress lady,” he says, “you are one persistent cookie.”

  I love being called cookie. I love it. I love it.

  I go to sit next to him on the couch.

  “Do you know how to waltz?” I ask.

  He flips a few channels and then turns off the TV. “So what’s the deal?” he says. “Are you a prostitute?”

  The thing is, I’m not offended. This makes me feel like he’s getting the sexual vibe which makes me feel good, you know, alive.

  “No,” I say. “I just like you. Do you have plans tonight? It’s Friday night, maybe we can do something.”

  “I have plans tonight,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. In six hours.”

  His chest is tan and a little bit doughy, soft nipples that look like a woman’s. For some reason it’s hard for me to even look at those nipples. They look so fragile, like fruit pulp waiting to be cut into wedges and served up in an exotic kiwi salad. It makes me want to crawl on top of him and put my thumbs on his soft fruity nipples and press down on them hard like they’re elevator buttons: hey, baby, take me to a higher floor. I wonder if he’s feeling lucky, I mean how often does a beautiful girl follow you home and come into your house? That’s lucky. That’s what guys wish for.

  “So.” He leans back on his couch and grabs a cigarette from the side table. I knew it. “I suppose I’d like to cut that dress right off of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette and then stubs it out. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. There’s the sound of all the cars and buses going by on Market Street, and it reassures me.

  “Knife or scissors?”

  He smiles. “Knife,” he says.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “that’s a little much, I think, for me.”

  “Scissors.” He relights the butt in the ashtray and smokes it again.

  “Okay. Scissors.”

  “You can let go of that incredible dress as easy as that?” he asks.

  “I can.” I have a bank account the size of your apartment, I’m thinking. I can see, on his bathroom door, an adhesive hook holding up a black T-shirt.

  He goes to his bedroom and comes out with a pair of orange-handled scissors. He walks slowly even though he knows I’m watching him. Back on the couch, he doesn’t sit any closer to me but just takes the hem and slices up, up past my hip, waist, side of my breast, under my arm, down the sleeve, up around, to the shoulder, snip at the neck. I feel like he took a letter opener and gently opened me up; he did such a neat job of it. Leaning back on his side of the couch, he replaces the scissors and surveys his work. I smile at him. The next move should be his.

  “I don’t think I’m going to touch you,” he says.

  I’m there, waiting, body cooled by the breeze coming in off the street through the window behind us.

  “What?” I know he can see my breast; it’s right there; I can sense it out of the bottom of my eye.

  “Nope.” He stands up and looks around.

  “What, are you going to tie me up or something?” I slide out my other arm so that my upper body is exposed, just my legs and waist still swathed in maroon satin. His couch is kelly green and it’s an interesting contrast. I spend a minute appreciating this.

  “Tie you up?” He goes to the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water. “No. I don’t do that shit.” He doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m half out of the dress.

  “Hello,” I say, “what is going on here? You just opened up my dress.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “thanks.”

  “But we have six hours,” I tell him, “you said we have six hours.”

  “Well,” he says, sipping the water, the counter between us, “what would you like to do?”

  I’m up off the couch which means the dress is on the floor and I’m naked in high heels. Which is maybe how I’ve wanted to be all day, those straps crisscrossing up my ankles like painted snakes. I take the water out of his hand and hop up on the kitchen counter and pull him to me with my feet. Then I kiss him, smoke taste still on his lips which are cold from the water. He keeps his mouth closed and I press my body to his. “Six hours,” I say, “is a long time.”

  “Lady,” he says, “I don’t think it’s going to happen here. I wanted to cut your dress. I don’t really want to fuck you, that’s just not what I’m looking for today. Sorry if that was misleading.”

  He has his water back in his hand. I take it from him and have a sip. It’s just water.

  “Yeah, well,” I tell him, “it was. I do think cutting up someone’s dress is misleading.”

  Stepping back, he exits my feet without difficulty, and looks straight at me, into me, like he did in the subway, the way that I love. He leans against the refrigerator and a magnet drops to the floor.

  “You want to be tied up?” he says then. “I’ll tie you up.”

  If I need to scream, out of the millions of people on Market Street, one of them will hear me. Someone would hear me and do something. I can scream really, really loud.

  He leads me to his bedroom which is very plain, nothing on the walls, an unmade bed. He has one chair at a desk and he puts me in it and goes to his closet and removes two belts. He starts to weave one of the belts through the slats at the back of the chair and around my hands.

  “Bedroom or living room?” he asks, his voice sort of flat.

  “Living room, please,” I say.

  Lifting me up in the chair, he brings me into the other room. My arms are already bound so he begins on my legs with swift, efficient hands. The window is still open, and I’m thinking about where I should aim my scream just in case.

  It seems like he can’t tie both legs effectively without another belt so he reaches down and whips the one out of his jeans, which then sink a little lower on his hips. I can see the broken angle of his pelvis. His nipples are still soft. I lean down, feeling like a deer in a trap, and dare to kiss one of them, bite it a little, those sweet soft fearful nipples.

  “Hey,” he says, “I’m doing something here.”

  I lean forward to try to kiss him again but he has stepped back, and I can’t move. He circles the chair and tests the belts. I arch my back. My breasts are poking out like cones, my nipples are not soft. He goes to the couch and turns on the TV.

  “You go imagine what you want,” he says, “tell me when you want to be untied.”

  I jump the chair around some so that I can see him.

  “What do you mean?” I say. He sticks his feet up on the coffee table, and starts to gently fold my dress.

  “Just what I said.”

  “You tie me up just to tie me up?”

  He puts the dress in a neat pile next to him, and runs a hand through his hair again. Why does everyone but me look so fucking tired? I get too much sleep. He takes a deep breath. “For right now,” he says steadily, “I’m going to watch TV.”

  I watch with him for a minute; it’s a show about Mozart. But I can’t really concentrate because behind the TV is the bathroom door with the hook and I can’t stop looking at that. My father was a millionaire, I want to tell him. You can’t just tie up a millionaire’s daughter and not fuck her. You can’t just tie her up while she’s naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch television! Who do you think you are?

  I want to jump the chair over and pounce on him, but I can’t steer it very well, so instead I turn my head around and stare at him, first seductively and then like a pain in the ass.

  He looks up after a while. “Yes?”

  “I’m bored,” I say.

  “You want to go home now?”

  “But we have six hours.” It comes out sounding whiny. I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t tell me to shut up and then unbuckle his pants with one quick rip. His face is kind, still tired, cheeks slack. I want to lay his head on my chest and soothe him, poor man who lives alone in this shitty
apartment. Poor man. Let me love you here on your green couch for the street to see, let me offer you something magical in the space between my breasts. Please. Please. Let me.

  “Lady,” he says again, “you ready to go home?”

  I’m thinking about the walk home. I’ll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I’ll borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn’t let me, then I’ll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fineness of the material, and decide I’m a good bet. She’ll tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still browse around. Maybe I’ll tell her the story of this dress, but leave it open-ended. And she’ll giggle, for after all, I am the customer. I’ll take a cab home in a new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apartment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch and it’s one of a kind. I have cable. I have better reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote control that can work through walls.

  I look at him again; he’s lighting up another match to continue smoking that same first cigarette.

  “No,” I tell him, slumping back down in the chair. “I don’t want to go home yet.” He turns to look at me. “Is that okay?” I ask.

  He gives a little nod. “That’s fine,” he says, leaning forward to change the channel. “So. Game show or the news?”

  “Not the news please,” I say. He clicks the knob three times over. The game show host looks really old. The shy man puts his elbows on his knees and he starts to call out answers to the trivia questions. I close my eyes and listen to the noise of winning fill the room.

  WHAT YOU LEFT IN

  THE DITCH

  Steven returned from the war without lips.

  This is quite a shock, said his wife Mary who had spent the last six months knitting sweaters and avoiding a certain grocery store where a certain young man worked and looked at her in that certain way. I expected lips. Dead or alive, but with lips.

  Steven went into the living room where his old favorite chair stood, neatly dusted and unused. I-can-eat-like-normal, he said in a strange halted clacking tone due to the plastic disc that covered and protected what was left of his mouth like the end of a pacifier. The-doctors-are-going-to-put-new-skin-on-in-a-few-weeks-anyway. Skin-from-my-palm. He lifted up his hand and looked at it. That-will-work, I-guess, he said. It-just-won’t-be-quite-the-same.

  No, said Mary, it won’t. That bomb, she said, standing on the other side of the chair, you know it took the last real kiss from you forever, and as far as I can remember, that kiss was supposed to be mine.

  That night in bed, he grazed the disc over her raised nipples like a UFO and the plastic was cool on her skin. It felt like they were in college and toying with desk items as sexual objects. Her boyfriend of that time, Hank: Let’s try a ruler. Let’s measure you, Mary. Let’s balance a paperweight on my dick. I’m over that, Mary thought. I want lips now. I just want the basics.

  She didn’t say anything, but began to shop at the other grocery store again.

  The young man there had always had lips but now they seemed twice as large and full and incredible, as if his face was overflowing with lip. While he ran her milk and eggs and toothpaste over the electronic sensor, she couldn’t stop looking at them, guessing what they tasted like. The warm, salty taste of flesh.

  Good to see you, he said, moving those lips. It’s been a while.

  Mary blushed and fiddled with the gum at the counter.

  Just take a pack, he told her. I won’t tell.

  Really? She looked at the flavors and picked cinnamon.

  Sure, he said, smiling at her, glancing around to see if his manager was in sight. Think of me while you chew.

  She blushed again, pocketed the gum and then grabbed her two full bags in both arms.

  Need help? he asked. Let me help you.

  Okay. She passed the weight to him, and he walked her to the car which was parked near the river. While he placed the bags into the trunk, she was taken by the desire to join them. She wanted to sit in there and invite the man in with her, shut the trunk down and lock it and just make love and eat groceries until they suffocated or her husband needed the car.

  Back at home, Steven was in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. Mary stood and watched him touching the disc with his fingertips, a bag under each arm, until he felt her and turned around.

  Honey, he said, back-so-soon! He took the bags from her, peered inside them and -oohed- and -aahed- over her food choices.

  Oh-Mary, he said, God-I-missed-you-so-much. In-that-ditch, when-I-thought-of-you, I-saw-an-angel. His voice broke. I-saw-Mary, my-angel, in-this-house, with-these-bags. You-brought-me-back-home. He reached out his hand and fingers trickled down her arm.

  She kept her back to him and shoved tin cans into the cupboard. Maybe, she was thinking, if you’d concentrated better you’d still have lips. Maybe you’re not supposed to think of your wife at the market while people are throwing bombs at you. Maybe you’re supposed to protect certain body parts so she’ll be happy when you come back.

  But instead she just piled the cans one on the other, edge to edge in tall buildings, kidney beans on top of tuna. She turned to Steven.

  You’re alive, she said, and hugged him. You’re Steven. He pressed the disc hard to her cheek and kissed her, - - -, and she held herself in and tried not to shatter.

  Steven ate more than she remembered so she was back at the market in two days. The young man was there, and she offered him a stick of the same cinnamon gum. He grinned at her.

  Thanks, he said, taking a piece.

  She touched the back of his hand while he was writing her driver’s license number on the check, and said, Do you take care of yourself?

  He looked up at her. What do you mean?

  I mean, what if they called you to fight in the war? Her hand was stilled on his.

  He snapped his gum. He drew a little gun on a corner of her check. No, he said, I don’t think I would do it. I think I’d run away, because, you know, I don’t want to fight in the war. I mean, how would you do it anyway? How would you know what to do? He drew little bullets coming out of the gun and sliding down the side of the check, near where her name and address were printed.

  Mary nodded and placed her license back into her wallet.

  I know, she said, me too. I would move away somewhere else. I wouldn’t leave people and maybe never come back. You can’t do that to people, you know?

  Right, he said, looking up at her: I know what you mean. The most unbearable thing is losing someone like that.

  Oh no, she said to him, wrapping the plastic handle of the bag around her wrist several times, I don’t think so. I don’t agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.

  At night Steven twitched with nightmares. He never used to; he used to sleep straight through the night, and Mary would carve shapes into his back with her stub of a fingernail and watch the goose bumps rise and fall like small mountain populations. Now he was bucking in and out of the sheets and she still carved the shapes and the goose bumps still emerged, but they didn’t calm him. She wondered what he was seeing. Sometimes she woke him up.

  Steven, she said, it’s okay. You’re here. You’re back.

  He looked up at her with a frame of sweat around his face and breathed out. -Mary-, he clacked, it’s-Mary.

  It’s Mary, she said. Yes. That’s me.

  He held her so tightly she was uncomfortable. She wiggled loose and finally fell asleep for a couple of hours but woke up again in the middle of the night and left the bedroom. Steven was sleeping quietly, his back to her, arm out, palm open, belly sloping down to the sheets. She tried the TV but everything was either without plot or in the middle so she couldn’t understand what was going on. Clicking it off, she went and sat in the backyard, on the edge of the patio with its red paint chipping. The sky was oddly light, but it was nowhere near morning.

  Leaning down into the dirt, she began to
dig a hole. The dirt was grainy and soft and lifted out easily, and she wondered why she never took up gardening. It’s supposed to be so soothing, she thought. Perhaps that is the soothing that I need.

  She leaned down into the dirt and dug until there was a hole a few feet deep. She placed her feet in it.

  I built this hole, she said, now what to put in it? She wandered in through the kitchen to the hall closet, opened it and saw the three sweaters she knit for Steven At War piled on the shelf by the sewing machine. There, she said, my sweaters. He won’t want these. No one wears sweaters here anyway.

  She lugged all three sweaters outside and gently folded them, placing them on top of each other in the hole. She remembered knitting them, singing songs into the thread about Steven, pretending she was keeping him alive although she knew he was dead. He had to be dead. She was just more honest with herself than the other wives. With each purl and knit and knot, she felt the coldness of his stiffening legs, the draining of color from his cheeks, knew that never would she feel his forearms warm and veined around her waist, never again would his voice whisper praise into her ear.

  She let the dirt dribble through her fingers over the pile of sweaters and it slid down the sides, slowly filling up the space, covering the colorful sleeves. Dead sweaters, she thought. Isn’t that funny, the way it turned out?

  • • •

  At the grocery store, the young man was wearing a gray button-up shirt and looked particularly handsome.

  I was hoping you’d come in, he told her. I was thinking about you.

  Really? His skin was so young, so new.

  I get off in just a few minutes. He looked at his watch. Do you want to go on a walk or something? We’re right by the river and I could use a break before I go home.

  She watched the bag-packer put the eggs haphazardly on top.

  Sure, she said. Why not.

  She packed the bags in her trunk again and after a beat, pulled out the bouquet of gardenias that she’d bought because they’d smelled so strongly. She waited for the young man, feeling like a bride. After a minute, he exited the store without his apron, let loose, looking younger.