It was supposed to be the biggest night of her life.
She had been dropping hints for weeks now, both subtle and pointed. She had switched the plastic ring he had given her on their very first date to her ring finger, and had pretended not to notice when he’d smiled.
They had been ten the afternoon he had given it to her. It had been break time, and usually the boys and girls remained safely separate. But that day, he had crossed the playground to smile at her. After fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he had drawn out a plastic silver ring with a large blue jewel. It had been too big for her to wear, but she tucked it in her blouse pocket and carried it with pride.
On her sixteenth birthday, he had offered to buy her a proper ring, but she insisted that the one she had was enough.
Now, it was her twentieth birthday, and she wanted to marry him. To be his wife, forever and always.
She had put on her little black dress, the one he’d always admired because it showed off a little bit too much leg. She had tied up her hair just the way he liked it. On her neck, she wore a pendant he had given her the day she turned eighteen, with the matching earrings he had got her the year before.
The plastic ring remained on her ring finger, winking in the streetlights.
They had never made it to the restaurant. A car had veered up on the path as they were walking down the road, knocking him off his feet.
She knelt on the pavement, cradling his head in her lap as sirens screamed.
Showing posts with label Little Black Dress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little Black Dress. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Little Black Dress by Sam Smith
There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch. She always took a slightly longer lunch break on Friday’s, because, hey, what the heck, right? It’s almost the weekend! She needed to get in the mood to relax early, otherwise it might just fly past. There’s a line in a film about sometimes life moving pretty fast, but she couldn’t remember it. In fact, at the time, she wasn’t even thinking about it. There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch.
She read the note. It was written in shorthand. To most people it would have looked like a toddler had gone a bit mental with a biro, but Susanna knew what it said. It was a poem.
“Your black dress, covered in flowers. Every bloom is an explosion on the night sky. Fireworks.’
It was a poem. A short one. Susanna didn’t like poetry, and even more she didn’t like this poem. She looked down at her dress. Casual Fridays were quite easy for her. She owned a lot of dresses. This one was her favourite. It was yellow with polka dots.
Love is blind, but the poet was just an idiot.
She read the note. It was written in shorthand. To most people it would have looked like a toddler had gone a bit mental with a biro, but Susanna knew what it said. It was a poem.
“Your black dress, covered in flowers. Every bloom is an explosion on the night sky. Fireworks.’
It was a poem. A short one. Susanna didn’t like poetry, and even more she didn’t like this poem. She looked down at her dress. Casual Fridays were quite easy for her. She owned a lot of dresses. This one was her favourite. It was yellow with polka dots.
Love is blind, but the poet was just an idiot.
Little Black Dress by Lesley Whyte
She wore me on her first date with Henry, and spent the whole time worrying if she was showing too much leg. She kept tugging at my hem, tugging and tugging until she actually ripped the seam away. She never fixed it, either. She hasn't fit into me for years, but she kept me all this time. She was sentimental like that. It's a shame, really. The broad straps and square neckline looked damn good on her.
She wore me the night Henry proposed. She was more confident by then, she had a higher hemline and a lower neckline and she didn't rip me. They went to that restaurant on the river, they wanted to sit out on the deck but it was full. She made some joke about it being too cold to sit outside anyway, even though it was the middle of August. She was covered in sweat, and so was I, but she didn't care. She didn't even care about how small the ring was. Sometimes she was too sentimental.
She wore me for the engagement party that Henry's mother threw them. They refused to let her pay for the wedding, they wanted to do it themselves, regardless of the fact that they were young and didn't have two pennies to rub together. So Camilla insisted on throwing them a big, fancy engagement party. I remember they ate shrimp, even though she was allergic. She sat in the corner, trying to smile at people while fighting back the tears, convinced that her future mother-in-law was actually trying to kill her. Of course, Camilla claimed it was a mistake and that there was plenty of salad that she could eat. After that, she went and cried in the bathroom.
Yes, she, uh...she wore me at the hen party. I'm afraid I'm sworn to secrecy. She never did take me out of the dry-cleaning bag again afterwards.
She wore me on their first anniversary, when Henry took her to dinner. It was their last chance to go out, just the two of them, before the baby came. It was a horrible night. She was tired and bloated and uncomfortable. I was too tight over the bump, I was stretched too tight and made her itch. Her swollen feet were stuffed into strappy sandals, but she didn't feel like she could kick them off in such a nice restaurant. They fought in the car on the way home. Henry said she didn't appreciate the nice things he did for her, asked why she always had to be so difficult. Said he should have taken her to McDonald's, since that was closer to what they could afford.
She wore me on their 30th anniversary, and she'd never looked better. I remember she looked through her closet before picking me, she wasn't the young, thin woman she'd once been, she needed something classier. A demure, wrap dress with elbow-length sleeves. She packed me in her suitcase, not knowing that Henry was whisking her away for a romantic weekend in Paris. They ate snails and mouldy cheese, then walked along the streets arm in arm, giggling like teenagers. Like the young lovers they were once. He told her he was more in love with her than ever.
She wore me again a few months later. I knew it would tarnish her memories of that weekend, but she couldn't face buying something new. Henry had been taken from her so suddenly, no illness leading up to it, but she had to be strong for the children. It didn't matter what she wore. Nothing mattered anymore.
She wore me the night Henry proposed. She was more confident by then, she had a higher hemline and a lower neckline and she didn't rip me. They went to that restaurant on the river, they wanted to sit out on the deck but it was full. She made some joke about it being too cold to sit outside anyway, even though it was the middle of August. She was covered in sweat, and so was I, but she didn't care. She didn't even care about how small the ring was. Sometimes she was too sentimental.
She wore me for the engagement party that Henry's mother threw them. They refused to let her pay for the wedding, they wanted to do it themselves, regardless of the fact that they were young and didn't have two pennies to rub together. So Camilla insisted on throwing them a big, fancy engagement party. I remember they ate shrimp, even though she was allergic. She sat in the corner, trying to smile at people while fighting back the tears, convinced that her future mother-in-law was actually trying to kill her. Of course, Camilla claimed it was a mistake and that there was plenty of salad that she could eat. After that, she went and cried in the bathroom.
Yes, she, uh...she wore me at the hen party. I'm afraid I'm sworn to secrecy. She never did take me out of the dry-cleaning bag again afterwards.
She wore me on their first anniversary, when Henry took her to dinner. It was their last chance to go out, just the two of them, before the baby came. It was a horrible night. She was tired and bloated and uncomfortable. I was too tight over the bump, I was stretched too tight and made her itch. Her swollen feet were stuffed into strappy sandals, but she didn't feel like she could kick them off in such a nice restaurant. They fought in the car on the way home. Henry said she didn't appreciate the nice things he did for her, asked why she always had to be so difficult. Said he should have taken her to McDonald's, since that was closer to what they could afford.
She wore me on their 30th anniversary, and she'd never looked better. I remember she looked through her closet before picking me, she wasn't the young, thin woman she'd once been, she needed something classier. A demure, wrap dress with elbow-length sleeves. She packed me in her suitcase, not knowing that Henry was whisking her away for a romantic weekend in Paris. They ate snails and mouldy cheese, then walked along the streets arm in arm, giggling like teenagers. Like the young lovers they were once. He told her he was more in love with her than ever.
She wore me again a few months later. I knew it would tarnish her memories of that weekend, but she couldn't face buying something new. Henry had been taken from her so suddenly, no illness leading up to it, but she had to be strong for the children. It didn't matter what she wore. Nothing mattered anymore.
Little Black Dress by Sara Travis
As she stared out the kitchen window, she thought about the events which had led to this moment in her life. Could she blame her father abandoning her at the age of four? Statistically, children from broken homes were always more likely to commit random acts of violence than those with so-called ‘stable parents.’ Or so she’d heard. What about Kevin Turner, that spotty 15 year old who’d rejected her invite to the prom in front of their entire Spanish class? That had been the first time she’d felt such blinding rage, that urge from the pit of her stomach to slap that stupid, lop-sided grin off his pale, pimply face. Or what about that guy at the supermarket earlier who’d short changed her by a whole £2.57, and then, when she’d raised the issue with the manager, vehemently denied it. Could anyone blame her for throwing a punch? What a knob.
But no. Really, it was Matthew’s fault entirely. She had asked him again and again to please, don’t leave your mouldy cereal bowls around the front room, to please, pick up those dirty socks which you’ve failed to slam-dunk into the laundry bin, to please, don’t let the bin overflow with McCoy’s crisp packets and Cheesestring wrappers and those disgusting soggy dregs from the bottom of his coffee mug.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood from the knife against her little black dress, and hoped the people at the drycleaners wouldn’t ask too many questions.
But no. Really, it was Matthew’s fault entirely. She had asked him again and again to please, don’t leave your mouldy cereal bowls around the front room, to please, pick up those dirty socks which you’ve failed to slam-dunk into the laundry bin, to please, don’t let the bin overflow with McCoy’s crisp packets and Cheesestring wrappers and those disgusting soggy dregs from the bottom of his coffee mug.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood from the knife against her little black dress, and hoped the people at the drycleaners wouldn’t ask too many questions.
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