The Brocade Dress
4.10.06
It was teh yellow thread that caught her eye; it glinted like the tulips she had once grown in her garden. She was passing the fabric shop on her way to a lunch date when her ankle twisted on a pebble, causing ehr to catch herself before falling into the plate glass window. There she was, face to face, with reams of gold threaded brocade fabric. Rubbing her ankle she let her eye wander across the rippling cloth, bolts laying one along the other, like jewel sandwiches. The colors were liquid, intoxicating , but it was the yellow which made her stand straight and enter the store despite the pain in her swelling joint.
The crinkly fabrics were knobbed with threads of varying thickness. Trailing her finger across the patterns she could feel teh stripes, the pin dots, teh whorls of each design. Their terrains were familiar, like her lover's body, for she had sewn many dresses in her youth. She imagined his chest hairs as coarse threads passed under finger tips. A small section of silk reminded her of the soft skin of his shoulder blade. And a long stretch of smooth satin brought back the feel of his hardened penis. This was teh cloth she would buy.
The four yards of yellow, gold flecked and white specked brocade lay on her table. She had wrapped her ankle now, tightly, and needed only a moment to plan the pattern in her mind. Her sharp shears cut quickly and precisely as she simply eye-balled the shape of her own silhouette against the cloth. She required only a flash of herself lying stretched out on the table to know where to cut for the waist, the hips, the knee length of the hem. A blush came as she imagined her lying on him while her scissors cut away teh chaff. Then quickly she pinned the pieces and held them up against her frame and looked in teh mirror. Her black hair fell past her shoulders onto the shining cloth and her dark eyes flashed in contrast to the sunny material. She could imagine how different she and the dress would look by candlelight, more like dripping honey than the daisy she saw before her. But she was pleased to see she hadn't lost her touch. The fabric lay against her skin like a slip; it was ready to sew.
The little machine sat by her window and hadn't been used in a long time. Her lover had left years ago and she never imagined seeing him again. She was happy now, with the simple black shifts she wore and the matching pumps. A little dust had collected on the machine and she blew it off with warm breath. By luck, a spool of golden thread lay ready and she quickly ran it through the needle. She primed the foot peddle and found the right tension for the bobbin before carefully placing the first seam on the sewing platform. The fabric crinkled and grabbed at the stitches almost before she began. It was a dress waiting to be born and she tended to it like a primigravida. As the needle flew up and down and the seams passed through her fingers, flashes of skin against sheets came to her minds eye. She blushed again to think of these things again, but let them linger a moment before turning a threaded corner. It had been years.
The sun caught itself in the moving gold flecked thread, like the sun setting on a Venetian Canal. More memories returned of held hands and caresses and soft licks; she was almost afraid to finish sewing lest the dream end forever. But her skin needed it now, to feel this long lost cloth against her legs, her waist, her breasts, her hips. It was quickly done; the simple high necked, mandarin collared curve hugging shift. She could barely take the time to properly hem it but the old skills came back and it was easily done. A long zipper ran down the back and even without sizing, she knew it would fit. She turned the machine off and held her breath.
It was perfect. She hung it lightly on the back of her chair and dropped her clothes, her pants, her shirt and now her bra. She would need no support with this dress; it was that well fitted. ANd so, in only her white lace panties she gently stepped into the shift, feeling the cool almost scratchy fabric crawl up her legs, her hips, her stomach and now her bare nipples and then her arms as they passed through the sleeveless opening. It made her shiver. She reached behind her and found the zipper, slowly dragged it up her spine until this second skin was now a second breath. Quickly seh caught her hair up in a clip so as to clasp the back of the collar and then, she took a look.
She gazed in the mirror and saw what she knew, but it still surprised her. There, standing in front of her was a ray of sunlight, curved around a woman's body. With each breath she heard a whisper of the fabric, as the brocade shifted against itself, teh threads accomadating teh living flesh beneath it. She looked different somehow, and not just from the new color against her skin. It was as if the dress had found her, after being cruelly separated years ago, and now was clinging to her for reassurance. She shifted her weight and it sighed in recognition. Yes, these were her thighs crossing slightly, her knees tickling the hem line, her soft armpits in the sleeve holes, her spine, her ribs, her hip bones all being contained by their rightful owner. She smiled and felt at home.
The clock ticked loudly and she knew it was time to go. It was going to be cool out but she didn't even take a shawl. She knew she would be warm enough, wherever she went. The dress was all she needed, for she had made it with her own hands, from the fabric of a memory and the love of one who had known her, had known the stitches and the seams of her cloth and how they held her together.
It was teh yellow thread that caught her eye; it glinted like the tulips she had once grown in her garden. She was passing the fabric shop on her way to a lunch date when her ankle twisted on a pebble, causing ehr to catch herself before falling into the plate glass window. There she was, face to face, with reams of gold threaded brocade fabric. Rubbing her ankle she let her eye wander across the rippling cloth, bolts laying one along the other, like jewel sandwiches. The colors were liquid, intoxicating , but it was the yellow which made her stand straight and enter the store despite the pain in her swelling joint.
The crinkly fabrics were knobbed with threads of varying thickness. Trailing her finger across the patterns she could feel teh stripes, the pin dots, teh whorls of each design. Their terrains were familiar, like her lover's body, for she had sewn many dresses in her youth. She imagined his chest hairs as coarse threads passed under finger tips. A small section of silk reminded her of the soft skin of his shoulder blade. And a long stretch of smooth satin brought back the feel of his hardened penis. This was teh cloth she would buy.
The four yards of yellow, gold flecked and white specked brocade lay on her table. She had wrapped her ankle now, tightly, and needed only a moment to plan the pattern in her mind. Her sharp shears cut quickly and precisely as she simply eye-balled the shape of her own silhouette against the cloth. She required only a flash of herself lying stretched out on the table to know where to cut for the waist, the hips, the knee length of the hem. A blush came as she imagined her lying on him while her scissors cut away teh chaff. Then quickly she pinned the pieces and held them up against her frame and looked in teh mirror. Her black hair fell past her shoulders onto the shining cloth and her dark eyes flashed in contrast to the sunny material. She could imagine how different she and the dress would look by candlelight, more like dripping honey than the daisy she saw before her. But she was pleased to see she hadn't lost her touch. The fabric lay against her skin like a slip; it was ready to sew.
The little machine sat by her window and hadn't been used in a long time. Her lover had left years ago and she never imagined seeing him again. She was happy now, with the simple black shifts she wore and the matching pumps. A little dust had collected on the machine and she blew it off with warm breath. By luck, a spool of golden thread lay ready and she quickly ran it through the needle. She primed the foot peddle and found the right tension for the bobbin before carefully placing the first seam on the sewing platform. The fabric crinkled and grabbed at the stitches almost before she began. It was a dress waiting to be born and she tended to it like a primigravida. As the needle flew up and down and the seams passed through her fingers, flashes of skin against sheets came to her minds eye. She blushed again to think of these things again, but let them linger a moment before turning a threaded corner. It had been years.
The sun caught itself in the moving gold flecked thread, like the sun setting on a Venetian Canal. More memories returned of held hands and caresses and soft licks; she was almost afraid to finish sewing lest the dream end forever. But her skin needed it now, to feel this long lost cloth against her legs, her waist, her breasts, her hips. It was quickly done; the simple high necked, mandarin collared curve hugging shift. She could barely take the time to properly hem it but the old skills came back and it was easily done. A long zipper ran down the back and even without sizing, she knew it would fit. She turned the machine off and held her breath.
It was perfect. She hung it lightly on the back of her chair and dropped her clothes, her pants, her shirt and now her bra. She would need no support with this dress; it was that well fitted. ANd so, in only her white lace panties she gently stepped into the shift, feeling the cool almost scratchy fabric crawl up her legs, her hips, her stomach and now her bare nipples and then her arms as they passed through the sleeveless opening. It made her shiver. She reached behind her and found the zipper, slowly dragged it up her spine until this second skin was now a second breath. Quickly seh caught her hair up in a clip so as to clasp the back of the collar and then, she took a look.
She gazed in the mirror and saw what she knew, but it still surprised her. There, standing in front of her was a ray of sunlight, curved around a woman's body. With each breath she heard a whisper of the fabric, as the brocade shifted against itself, teh threads accomadating teh living flesh beneath it. She looked different somehow, and not just from the new color against her skin. It was as if the dress had found her, after being cruelly separated years ago, and now was clinging to her for reassurance. She shifted her weight and it sighed in recognition. Yes, these were her thighs crossing slightly, her knees tickling the hem line, her soft armpits in the sleeve holes, her spine, her ribs, her hip bones all being contained by their rightful owner. She smiled and felt at home.
The clock ticked loudly and she knew it was time to go. It was going to be cool out but she didn't even take a shawl. She knew she would be warm enough, wherever she went. The dress was all she needed, for she had made it with her own hands, from the fabric of a memory and the love of one who had known her, had known the stitches and the seams of her cloth and how they held her together.
posted by Barbery at 9:06 PM
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