By Christopher Bowles
And it’s softer than I thought it would be.
Softer, yet somehow heavier.
There’s a weight in the drop of the fabric; a sort of…
purpose, in the way the material moved. Each swish of the skirt gave the
impression of dignified movement. The poised leg of a prima donna, the tilted
wrist of a geisha, the firm salute of the maestro. It was somehow full of
movement and music and… emotion, even when it was still.
On the mannequin in the shop window, it looked somehow both
innocent and dignified. Childlike and royal. Virginal yet epicene. And that was
what drew my eye, I guess. The fact it managed to somehow represent a tightly
woven bundle of contradictions, yet never looked… I’m not sure how to describe
it really. I’m usually quite eloquent, but when it comes to this dress... somehow
words fail me every time.
It was like the tailor had left a blank canvas. A black
sheet of material that could be anything, and everything. And every time I saw
it from the very first day, a small fire inside me was fed, and fanned, and
burned.
I had passed it by a month ago. I was cramping all
through my shift, and just wanted to curl up with a trashy bodice-ripper, a hot
water bottle and a tub of cookie-dough ice-cream. It had been snowing for the
last week, and predictably, the Underground was in complete disarray. I was
forced into the streets with a crowd of other commuters, mumbling and grumbling
and shouting nonsensically into mobile phones. Those dreaded three words.
Replacement Bus Service.
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