The Dress

I'm conveniently out. I'm conveniently busy for two or three weeks. Sometimes I can't be bothered to answer the phone. Or else, I've unplugged the damn thing. Anyway, you haven't called. Did you call? I was out. Fortunately, you're very busy. The demands on your time, who would have believed it? Besides, you forgot about me in a week anyway. Thank you.
It was the dress that gave me so much pleasure. Just the dress. For one thing, it nearly fits me. Off the rack nothing does. I suppose it's a "sexy" dress. But that has nothing to do with me. Now I own a sexy dress, that's all. I couldn't be bothered to wear one before. I had no place to wear it. Now I wear it anywhere, all over the place. At the most surprising times, and it's not more inappropriate than anything else. So what?
It wasn't you ripping the dress, it was the sound of the dress ripping, if you get what I mean. Later you said that you heard the dress ripping. And you hardly knew me. There you were ripping my dress. While pleading silently with it to have some compassion. Begging it not to rip, unable not to rip it. The sound of the dress ripping. And you couldn't believe it because I didn't bat an eye. That's what you said, I didn't bat an eye.
And wearing it home, hiding it under my full-length overcoat. And a look of vagueness, a little defiant, walking, without fear, past three slightly drunk men on a deserted street in the early hours of the morning.
I took some care with it. Using thin thread and my embroidery scissors, I repaired the damage. I had it cleaned and pressed.
I get so much pleasure from that dress.
I wore it to dinner at my sister's house. My little neice was nearly stupefied by the neckline. She is already waiting for one just like it. She is already waiting for the ten years to pass, keeping in mind the dress.

from Amphibian Hearts
short stories by Patricia Seaman, 1991