from here to $31.21
6-14-97
the date on the receipt for the shoes i got for christine and todd's wedding. studio roma brand. back before i broke the mythic $28,000 per annum income. they cost, according to the bill, $31.21, with "accessories" and tax, at 11:21am. they do this criss-cross thing at the instep, and the heel is a not too innocent, not too naughty 2-3/4 inches. sling back, mildly pointed toe. they show off the arch nicely. creme with slight sheen. the dress i borrowed from swa. deceptively simple. an elegant thing that hung and clung to the calf. a peach-or-beige bordering on apricot silk. silk on skin, same color, turning slight sensation of naked into Naked, especially in kissy breezes. the undergarments were a small concern - not too much to choose from and not willing to spend the dough or the time searching. so, digging into my own stash of possible solutions, i decided - less is more.
todd's dad approached me on the steps of the church.
"you are marvelous in that dress. really marvelous."
i doublechecked with my boyfriend. "hey, am i all loose or hussy in this getup?" he raised an eyebrow, "no," a wink of a smile, lips to my shoulder.
then to christine, who was beginning to glow under the summer sun and the scratchy princess taffeta. "oh, honey, you're beautiful. you're givin all the guys a thrill when you stand in the sun. let's get married..."
it was a sexy dress.
the shoes sit on my desk atop their box tonight. 7-24-05. no sign of festival dancing with royal oak's hari krishnas. no sign of railroad crossing and picture taking on the tracks. no sign of blisters. no sign of drunken stumbling. no sign of panty hose run and disrobing. no sign of christine's father's slurred advice:
"never go to bed angry."
"and get plenty of sex," i heard from somewhere behind him. christine's mom strolled over, speaking in authoratative tones to the bar staff. mr. snyder padded her ass. she never blinked, kept talking.
boyfriend's stomach ache saw us to the door early. the shoes on my desk show no sign of the slow walk to the car through fragrant orange. no sign of the slow tender ministrations offered in the dark. no sign of the following years, the perfectly too loud music through their cardboard box walls, the smells of quick dinners and dirty soccer clothes at the bottom of the closet. the giggles passing from doorway to bed. the tense silences from bed to doorway. no sign of the dozen or so weddings they tried out for but did not attend. no sign of the surgery to correct the broken tarsels etcetera. no sign of his leaving, of mine.
they sit, as if nothing in the world has ever happened. as if anything or everything can.
a lot can happen to $31.21.
the date on the receipt for the shoes i got for christine and todd's wedding. studio roma brand. back before i broke the mythic $28,000 per annum income. they cost, according to the bill, $31.21, with "accessories" and tax, at 11:21am. they do this criss-cross thing at the instep, and the heel is a not too innocent, not too naughty 2-3/4 inches. sling back, mildly pointed toe. they show off the arch nicely. creme with slight sheen. the dress i borrowed from swa. deceptively simple. an elegant thing that hung and clung to the calf. a peach-or-beige bordering on apricot silk. silk on skin, same color, turning slight sensation of naked into Naked, especially in kissy breezes. the undergarments were a small concern - not too much to choose from and not willing to spend the dough or the time searching. so, digging into my own stash of possible solutions, i decided - less is more.
todd's dad approached me on the steps of the church.
"you are marvelous in that dress. really marvelous."
i doublechecked with my boyfriend. "hey, am i all loose or hussy in this getup?" he raised an eyebrow, "no," a wink of a smile, lips to my shoulder.
then to christine, who was beginning to glow under the summer sun and the scratchy princess taffeta. "oh, honey, you're beautiful. you're givin all the guys a thrill when you stand in the sun. let's get married..."
it was a sexy dress.
the shoes sit on my desk atop their box tonight. 7-24-05. no sign of festival dancing with royal oak's hari krishnas. no sign of railroad crossing and picture taking on the tracks. no sign of blisters. no sign of drunken stumbling. no sign of panty hose run and disrobing. no sign of christine's father's slurred advice:
"never go to bed angry."
"and get plenty of sex," i heard from somewhere behind him. christine's mom strolled over, speaking in authoratative tones to the bar staff. mr. snyder padded her ass. she never blinked, kept talking.
boyfriend's stomach ache saw us to the door early. the shoes on my desk show no sign of the slow walk to the car through fragrant orange. no sign of the slow tender ministrations offered in the dark. no sign of the following years, the perfectly too loud music through their cardboard box walls, the smells of quick dinners and dirty soccer clothes at the bottom of the closet. the giggles passing from doorway to bed. the tense silences from bed to doorway. no sign of the dozen or so weddings they tried out for but did not attend. no sign of the surgery to correct the broken tarsels etcetera. no sign of his leaving, of mine.
they sit, as if nothing in the world has ever happened. as if anything or everything can.
a lot can happen to $31.21.
posted by stacy muszynski at 1:38 AM
3 Comments:
I love and admire and ache at how your narratives moves the reader along like an unsuspecting rider on the crazy bus at carnivaland, picking up passengers with a clown at the wheel who never laughs nor weeps but tells you with those eyes that hang like an upside down "hahaha" that things are not how they should be or could never be again and he turns that big wheel and hits the gas and all the people go "ooooh" but the ride goes on and the bus takes them where they did not expect to go yet when they get off the bus they look and then look again as if to say "this is not where I thought I was going" and then look again and say "yes, this is where we are now," "yes this is the place" and then...and then you move in for the kill with devastating simplicity like this: "the giggles passing from doorway to bed. the tense silences from bed to doorway."
If you wear a dress the way you write, then it would be the sexiest most tantalizing question mark.
laine, it's true it's true!
shadowboxer, strange and probably true...
grumblefish, a pleasure to meet you... thanks.
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