This dress from Lady Jane Vintage is my birthday present to myself. I ordered it on a Thursday and it arrived two days later, cosseted in pink tissue paper. Since then I’ve been wearing it as often as I can get away with, because holy shit – LOVE. How much more perfect can one dress be? I’m really digging the modest silhouette + sheer fabric. “Slutty grandma” is pretty much my favorite aesthetic. Naturally I had to wear my black vintage bra & panties.
My other birthday present to myself, by the way, will be my first major tattoo. I’m talking armpit-to-hip. I’ll be inscribed with it as of this coming Sunday, and I can’t wait to show off its barest outline under my housewife dresses.
And now, have the first few paragraphs of a short story I started writing last night!
She kept expecting someone else’s face.
Not every day. Not all the time. Not with parts of herself she cared for overmuch. But when the bashful sun crawled away, when dawn first cracked open, when she couldn’t sleep through her husband’s alarm, when the world was one big threshhold, Aurora remembered her.
Philip kissed her goodbye at seven a.m. She pretended to doze: the better to savor the face she wished she saw, to soften the contrast between the clever one she expected and the blank, lusty one she got.
Not all the time. For most of the day, her mind and her marriage stayed in lockstep. She slapped away hands that pinched her bottom and fantasized about Philip rising up in the name of her honor. She pictured his smile in quiet moments and grew a sly, private smile of her own. She ducked into the bathroom just after dinner and stuffed her panties in her handbag: she loved his hands on her waist as she stood at the sink, roaming down until he found the absence of satin and the skin in its place. She loved that he still played surprised, every time. She loved him.
But she also loved something that lay just beyond her, something less than skin-on-skin but more than a dream. She loved the curious revenant that dogged her in the wee hours, until sleep snuffed her mind’s surface clean. She loved it even as Philip snored beside her: even as her five prosaic senses worked, some archaic sixth was waking up.
Aurora was nineteen when they met, and Philip was twenty. He was too young for the finance job his uncle had finagled for him. He looked positively silly in shirtsleeves, a babe with a briefcase, and Aurora loved him for it. She poked fun at his white-collar accoutrements, but she was grateful when they bought her an apartment in the city, a kitchen set in the modern style. She worked her stenography job from ten to two and came home to fuss and nest in the afternoons. The rationing was finally over, and she made trays of roasts and butter sweets. She felt modern and loved and glowing with having proved wrong parents and doctors both: she was down to two pills a day, and here she still was! Every day she pinched her hips and felt giddy at their thickening. She curled her hair and marveled that the golden filaments held their own against the heat. With Philip, living in the city, clicking to work in heels she’d bought herself, she felt real.
She wasn’t supposed to bear children, not yet, not without Doctor Crowley’s signature, but she loved Philip and the life he’d given her too much not to try.
And so she sat at their formica dining set at five o’clock, hair curled, suit pressed, curves curvier every day, and she fought to keep her mind off the liminal. Resisted finding the fabled face in the grain of her walls. This was a day for the flesh.