The Sheer Black Dress (A short story)

Once you learn how to ride a bicycle, you always know how to, no matter how long it's been. The first time you saddle back up, you instantly know how to balance and peddle away into the sunset. So I reminded myself, as I looked at the sheer black dress hanging in my closet. Would my skin recognize the embrace of chiffon?

Kevin and I had fallen apart 4 years ago. There wasn't any single reason why our breakup happened. I once explained it as life taking away the breath out of our relationship. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to remember the way Kevin kissed me. All I can feel is the patch of stubble that clung to the outline of his lower lip. He was my last lover, unless you count Rudy Palms and his five brothers. B.O.B. (Battery Operated Boyfriend) doesn't count, becauseI had him while I was still with Kevin.

The sheer black dress was my symbol of awakening feminine wiles. I saw him a month ago. He was walking his boxer, Spence. I was standing by my mailbox, caught dead in a pair of torn jeans and an old sweatshirt that had "paper or plastic?" across its front. He stopped to introduce himself, as Clay, the new guy on the block.There wasn't anything spectacular about him, until he laughed. His teeth were pure white inside a slightly wicked smile.

When he asked if my parents were home, l laughed at the sincerity in his voice. His incredulous look, when I told him I owned the house, was rewarded with a smile from me. No amount of him flirting could get me to tell my age. After we parted, I went inside to take a long look at myself. Seeing no visible lines on my face, I wondered if the absence of strain from a relationship was the secret to eternal youthful looks.

It wasn't long before he developed a routine of walking Spence by my house at 6 p.m. daily. Unless it was raining, I made up excuses to be outside at that time. It took him a week before he asked me to dinner, but it took me three weeks to say yes.

Here I was, standing in front of my closet, damp from a shower, contemplating bicycles and sheer dresses. I pulled it off the hanger, trying to remember where I had put the form fitting slip that went with the dress. Eventually, I found it in my lingerie drawer, under a sky-lit bra that I used to wear for Kevin, during my silly strip tease shows. I tossed the bra into the trash. Sometimes it's best to let go of the past, by destroying the symbols of its era.

Was I truly ready for the relationship scene once again? It seemed that a rocky path was ahead of me now that I was used to my own sly forms of secret orgasmic solos. Would I remember how to be in tune as a sexual partner?

With the clock blinking at me, subtracting minutes away from blast-off, I hurriedly dressed in the cling-on slip. Holding my breath, I slipped the dress over my head, waiting for the embrace. I smiled asI realized it was like slipping on a second skin. Stockings and heels completed the picture. I couldn't help but feel nervous.

The doorbell rang. There stood Clay, holding red tulips. When he saw me, his face reflected a look of raw desire. I felt a million goose bumps run up and down my arms. A change had come over me, as soon as his eyes touched mine. In them, I was every woman I had ever dreamt of being. I remembered what I had forgotten—the power of a sheer black dress.

A Short Story= Luck of Java

I should have noticed the signs before I entered the "Luck of Java" coffeehouse on Maple Drive. It was one of those days, where I stumbled through life wearing a mental blinder. My mind was on my husband Kevin, whose mind was on screwing his buxom secretary. A surprise visit to his office earlier in the day had shown me what they "worked" on after hours. The image of his pants around his ankles and his secretary on her knees in front of him was seared into my brain like an unwanted brand.

The handmade open sign was taped crookedly to the glass of the door. The word "Open" was written in thin red ink, which made scarlet rivulets down the paper. I pushed the door open, causing a cowbell to jingle. The interior was exceedingly shadowy and smelled of sandalwood incense.I made my way to the counter to order a nice hot cup of French Vanilla coffee. Gourmet coffee was always a favorite calming beverage. I really should have had a few shots of whiskey, but have never been one to drink "spirits," even during times like this.

A lanky man wearing a blue satin bodysuit was poised by the cash register. Blue makeup covered his face and glitter decorated his hair and eyebrows. Painted in the center of his forehead was a large eye. For a moment, I thought it was winking at me. He reminded me of a circus performer, waiting for the drum roll that announced the beginning of his amazing act.

"May I help you, Madame?" He asked, waving his arms and bending backwards, as if he were dancing on a wire high above the crowd.

I hesitated, "Well, do you… could I…"

Then he did a back flip, "Yes, we do and yes you can."

I wasn't sure if I should applaud. Looking around, I saw that no one seemed to notice his strange antics, so I decided to ignore them too. "Do you have French Vanilla flavored coffee? Not cappuccino, regular coffee!"

He flipped back into a standing position. "We have the Luck of Java only. It is what you are after, for everyone wants it. Many just don't realize it." He proceeded to do some mime-like movements. I noticed his fingernails had red ink stains around them.

"I've never had a cup of `Luck of Java.' What kind of coffee bean is used?" I was trying to keep an open-mind, because I really wanted a cup of coffee and the next coffee shop was ten blocks away.

"Ah, my dear Madame of the Blonde Highlighted Clan, do not ask too many questions or the Luck of Java will never grace thee." He ruffled his stringy hair and then did a snake like movement with his arms.

I subconsciously touched my highlighted blonde tresses. Taking a deep breath, I said, "I'll take a cup."

Before he could reply, sirens sounded outside. Blue swirling light filled the café, like a blue-themed disco bar. The strange glitter-tinted man raised his eyebrows up and down a few times. His third eye winked. A screeching bullhorn made my ears ache. Suddenly a loud irregular voice crackled out the bullhorn.

"This is Captain Rogers with the police department. We have you surrounded. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up or we'll come in. You have five minutes."

"Looks like the king's men have arrived. Party Crashers, they never wait for an invitation!" The blue dancing man did back flips through the door into the kitchen.

Afraid of getting caught in some sort of cross-fire, I stepped back from the counter to take refuge in a booth against the back wall. As I walked by a table, I brushed against a man leaning over a large mug, causing him to slump to the side. A big red grin at his throat caused me to scream as shrilly as the bullhorn had a few seconds before.

At that moment, I realized none of the customers seated at the tables or booths were moving and all were leaning forward over large mugs. The coppery smell of blood masked by sandalwood incense made my stomach turn. Instinctively, I began to back away from the horrible sight before me.

From behind me, the blue man whispered, "Luck of Java, we all have it, my pretty yellow-striped kitty cat. But instead of receiving it, you give it." I turned to face him, just as he took a swipe at me with a large bloody knife.

I ducked and scrambled under a table. Screaming for help, I watched his legs as they did flips, jumps and other dance moves. The surrealism was beautiful as it was terrifying.

"Come out, Madame Blonde Locks. Do you not want the Luck of Java? I will be glad to give. Sadly, dear pretty lips, it looks as if you will be my last customer."

Timidly, I gazed up from under the table I was cowering under. The blue dancing man had sat down at the one beside it. On the table was a big ceramic mug. The blue swirling lights from the police cars outside caused the mug to emit an unnatural glow. With a dazzling smile at me, he did his last dramatic snake arm dance, before slicing his own throat. The warm blood gushed out in jet streams, most of it covering the table, but some hit my face. Before I could stop myself, I tasted the blood on my lips.

Without warning, the glass windows imploded inward, as policemen broke into the coffee shop. I protected my face with my arms. Seconds later, I felt a strong hand encircle my forearm, pulling me out from under the table.

"Captain, we have a survivor. She's wounded. Quick, get at ambulance."

I shook my head, "I'm not hurt, my gallant knight with the arms of steel. I am wearing the Luck of Java." Savoring the warm coppery flavor, I smiled longing for blue glitter, as I performed my own rendition of snake arm dancing.