THE BROCADE DRESS (revised)

7.10.06

It was the yellow thread that caught her eye; glinting like the tulips she had once grown in her garden. She was passing the fabric shop on her way to lunch when her ankle twisted on a pebble and she caught herself before falling into the plate glass window. There she was, face to face, albeit through a vitrine, 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, jewel sandwiches. The liquid colors were intoxicating, but it was the buttercup that made her stand straight and enter the store.

The crinkly fabrics were knobbed with threads of varying thickness. Trailing her finger across the patterns she could feel the stripes, the pin dots, the whorls of each design. Their terrains were familiar, like her former lover's body, for she had sewn many dresses in her youth. She imagined his chest hairs as coarse threads passed under fingertips. 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 the cloth she would buy.

The four yards of yellow, gold flecked and white-specked brocade now lay on her table. She had wrapped her ankle, tightly, and needed only a moment to plan the pattern in her mind. Her sharp shears cut quickly and precisely as she simply eyeballed the shape of her own silhouette against the cloth. She required only a mental picture 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 the chaff. Then quickly she pinned the pieces and held them up against her frame and looked in the mirror. Her black hair fell past her shoulders onto the shining cloth and her dark eyes punctuated the sunny material. 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 but hadn't been used in a long time. Her lover had left years ago and she had never imagined sewing again. She was contented now, with the simple black shifts she wore and the matching pumps. Dust had collected on the old metal frame 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 mind’s eye. She blushed again to think of these things, but let them linger a moment before turning a threaded corner. It had been years.

The daylight caught itself in the moving gilded 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. 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 yet 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. Her breasts would need no support with this dress; it was that well fitted. And so she gently stepped in, 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 first breath. Quickly she caught her hair up in a clip, clasped the back of the collar and then, took a look.

She gazed in the mirror. 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, the threads accommodating the 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 now, she had to get out of the small apartment. It was going to be cool out but 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.

The night air was quiet with a scent of jasmine. She stepped out of her building, hesitated and looked around . But she was alone, for the moment, and the city's sounds invited her off the stoop. Her ankle, wrapped in a tightly wound white gauze bandage, flashed against the shadows as she strode down the sidewalk. Her grass green paten leather pumps clicked on the pavement a little unevenly as she favored the stronger foot, but she quickly adjusted her hips and walked on. Little wisps of hair at the nape of her neck flicked across her skin as the air passed by and she remembered the feel of lips there, years ago. Neon signs flashed invitations to drinks, pawn shops and a triple x theatre creating a rainbow of options and for the first time in her many years living in this seedy neighborhood, she slowed down in front of a bar.

It was a Tuesday night, not very crowded on the streets or inside. The smell of cigarettes and sawdust signatured the local haunt she had passed every day on her way to work and she smiled to herself. Years ago, when she had first arrived in the city, she had stepped inside to use the rest room before looking at the apartment she now inhabited. The owner had given her the once over as she entered, then nodded in the direction of the back, knowing full well that the slight woman was not a drinker. After 40 years behind the bar he could always tell.

Tonight, something stopped her and she looked inside to see that same owner polishing glasses in front of see through shelves, lined with bottles. The light hit their many colors and she recognized the same jewel sandwiches she had seen in the fabric shop, this time upright. A bottle of green Midori was backlit, like the "walk" of a street light, and for some reason her mouth salivated. Again, she looked around, hesitated, then pushed the door open and entered. Inside the city sounds were replaced by the drone of a television in one corner and Sting's "An Englishman in New York" was playing on the jukebox. She recognized the song from years back and felt a pull in her throat; it was a hit when she was falling in love and she instinctively ran her hands down the sides of the dress, feeling the brocade again.

He had loved her hips, the way the pelvic bones poked out slightly, like the dimples of a smile. When she got angry she would put her hands on them and feel them hard under palms. It calmed her, re-centered her balance and then she would laugh out loud at whatever insignificant thing had triggered the argument and then she'd throw up her arms in defeat. He had loved that about her, how once voiced, her anger would take off like a pigeon from its cage and she would open her door again and let him in. There had been plenty of those moments for he was flash to her dark and she, thought to his impulse. Of course, that had been the attraction and ultimately the end of them, but the in between had been a fully pulsed, living, breathing thing that went weeks on water, a crust of bread and a bottle of olive oil.

She sighed, hitched herself out of her reverie onto the stool and laced her fingers neatly on the counter. Herb smiled his semi-toothless grin and looked straight into her dark eyes."What can a do yu foh?" he asked in his deep NY accent. "Gin and tonic, please."She looked at the bottles of liquor behind his back, standing up neatly like seraphin bowling pins, differing levels of varied hued liquids creating a bar graph of preferred imbibements. Suddenly she wished she were already inebriated, that she didn't have to take the time to drink and could immediately go to that wavy place in her brain. It had been years since she had had an all out drunk, the night he had left, crept out of her life as silently as he had crept in. Five years ago to the day, she now realized as the TV intoned the date. Was that why the fabric had found her, why she had been compelled to make this dress, today of all days?

Herb slid the crystally cold drink across the shellacked counter to her waiting hand and their fingers brushed. She looked down, thanked him and drew the drink to her lips and sipped. The frosty glass chilled her mouth and her tongue flinched at the tartness of the tonic. The scent of lime wafted out as the vodka slid down her throat like a fur coat slipping off a shoulder. Her nostrils cleared and she took a deep breath. It was good to have this taste again. And the memories which came back with it.

Crisp, snapping white sheets on a thick flat futon on the floor. Her long black hair spilling off the pillow onto the hard oak planks. His arm flung across her chest. A black corded necklace around his neck. Her pumps flung across the room. His feet bare. A music stand. An empty bottle of Malbec. Two tumblers. A plate with some fig skins, the rind of a Manchego cheese. A scarf.

Another sip of the drink washed the image out of her mind for a moment and she noted Herb, his back to her as he watched the ball game on the television. Suddenly, she didn't want to be in this place any more. She pulled a few bills out of her purse, laid them on the counter and teetered off the stool, her drink barely touched. With soft steps she headed to the door and Herb watched her in the mirror behind the bottles, her head bobbing in and out of the reflection. Only as she approached the exit, did she turn back and toss him a "thanks."

The night had gotten cooler but it felt good against her skin. She turned toward the river, not knowing where she would go, not caring. A homeless man whistled his appreciation of her hip swinging gait as she passed and she smiled. She couldn't remember the last time she walked the neighborhood at night. Had she ever? A truck was delivering a shipment of fresh flower bouquets to a Korean market and she stopped to inhale, but found their odors had been captured by their stiff plastic wrap cones; their essences muted. The colors, however, were magnified by their wrappings, almost making up for the anticipated olfactory deluge. She would pick up some ranunculaes on her way home.

Around the corner she turned and passed a vacant building, graffitti-ed walls broadcasting complaints and celebrations. It was a long block and she realized she was unfamiliar with this side of the broad avenue she usually crossed to get to her subway. Another corner loomed ahead and she headed toward it, noting the blinking streetlight ahead. Green, Yellow, Red fuzzy spots guiding pedestrians to safety. Wouldn't it be great to have those guide-lights at every juncture in life, she thought. A few figurative near misses, one all out collision and she had grown wary of crossing new streets.

The corner now turned, she saw ahead an open door and heard music, muted as it slid down the street toward her. She kept walking until she recognized the distinctive markings of Tango, the whiny wail of the bandoneon, slinking up the sidewalk and around her ankles. She stopped. She could turn around now and go back whence she came, or she could cross the street, or she could simply walk on by. But she did none of these. Instead, the dress shifted, as if to propel her forward, like a proud mother. She approached the door and noted a flyer posted on the door: "Leaders Night 8:30-10:00pm, Followers join 10:00pm" Inside she could see about 15 men and a woman learning the Leaders steps to the Argentine dance and a couple in the middle, the teachers. They all looked serious, lost in the imagined arms of partners, as they circled the floor. Behind her, a group of high heeled, nylon panty-hosed women, whispering, gathered around her as they too inspected the occupants. And then the pressure of their presence corralled her into the room with them as the clock hit 10:00pm and the song came to an end. The women fanned out, heading for their intended’s or desireds and she realized she was inside.

The instructors welcomed the women and, with couples formed in less than a minute, the music started up again. For some reason, she kept standing there, mesmerized, wondering why her legs were not moving her back to the door and out where she belonged. She had not chosen to be here and could leave freely. But then, a light tap on her shoulder got her attention and she turned to find one of the male Leaders offering her the opening dance position. His dark eyes surprised her, looked familiar, and his smile said, "welcome." He raised his left arm, waiting, and then a woman, newly entered, patted her towards him, with a whisper in her ear. "Dance, honey, dance."

The music was leading the other couples around the room and she could feel the brocade dress now squeeze her towards this man. He gently took her right hand, she placed her left arm around his back and found the place between his shoulder blades, put the back of her hand against it. He pulled her towards him just so and looked into her eyes. She edged in one more inch and nodded. And with perfect timing, he stepped forward with his left foot and she reached back with her right. The classic eight step gave them enough time to feel their space and his grip signaled every move. Their bodies mirrored each other as they glided across the floor and with her first pivot and foot flick she met his eyes and they knew.

The other couples had noticed how suddenly the solitary man who had only attended the Leaders class was now in complete synchronicity with the new woman. They wondered where she had trained, did they actually know each other despite their slightly removed glances? To the outside eye, they had been coupled for years, so attuned was the conversation between their bodies. Even the instructors stopped to watch.

With a head toss, her clasped hair loosened and a strand curled down around her neck. She could feel how the dress slid up and down her thighs, how his back muscles flexed, letting her know which direction he was headed. She did not blush at the more intimate moves, as she entwined her leg around his, as her breasts pressed against his chest, and when her hips brushed against the buckle of his belt, his groin. She had been here once before, in this dance and knew it as well as she knew how to breathe: its lines, its boundaries, its promises and its lies. Sweat glistened in the cup of her throat and she could smell his scent. It was wood and musk and apple tang. She wanted to taste him. He turned his head towards her.

Time hid behind curtains as they covered the dance floor, like linoleum cutters carving out a lovers' leitmotif. And then, somehow, the music ended and the clock struck a tinny hour. It was midnight and she had no memory of arriving in this place. The other couples were clapping, looking at the two of them and she smiled shyly. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear but she stepped away, smoothly and put a finger to his lips. The door pulled her out into the night again and she wobbled for a moment before looking back into the dance hall. The group had surrounded her partner who looked past them to the door, but she was now gone.

Hurrying home, she felt the dress shift, now scratching where it had not bothered her before. Its narrowness kept her from the full strides she needed to get home before... She didn't know before what, just felt impelled towards the safety of her small apartment, the straight lines of her furniture, the still bare walls.

The air was now too heavy in the dance hall as he pushed his way outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of this partner who had come and gone like the opening and closing of a door. His hands were on fire and wanted to draw her back into his fold; he sniffed to see if he could catch a scent of her, but there was none. He groaned out loud and shook his head, then turned back to the building and re-entered, this time climbing the stairs next to the dance hall's entrance. His loft was on the second floor and he ran up the scarred, metal steps 3 at a time. Maybe a hundred sit-ups would dispel the energy still vibrating his legs and arms. Or maybe a glass of wine. Or maybe, he should just sit with the moment and listen to what it meant.

Once inside his open space with Berber rugs strewn here and there, huge canvases of splattered oil paint, and a single table, he stopped and stood and looked around at the emptiness and felt the solitude for the first time in years. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to comb out the tension rising through the follicles. He was sweaty and his body felt suddenly leaden. The shower beckoned.

On the other side of the block, she entered her apartment and quickly tugged at the zipper, to get out of this dress that had taken her too far. But it was stuck and she could not get it undone. The golden corset made her feel claustrophobic. Yanking both sides of the dress's back she rent it loose with the sound of a mussel shell being pried open to reveal the plump meat within. The dress whished off her body to the floor and lay crumpled around her feet, a shed snakeskin. She looked down and felt a tear fall from her chin onto the broken brocade. Quickly, she picked up the garment, smoothed it against her chest gently like a hurt child and placed it neatly on the headless seamstress model. One day she would fix it, she lied to herself.

Even with the windows open and her ceiling fan directing air currents over her naked skin, she couldn't breath. When would she stop taking these baby steps into the world and live again? She had once, on the full slice of life, and then she had lost herself to another and fallen under the barnacled keel of need. It scraped over her for years until one day, maybe it was when she heard he had died, she swam up to the surface and watched the hull pass on by. She could see the sky again, feel the sun and shook off the seaweed that had trapped her long legs. And now, here she was. Those legs could betray her again, get wrapped up with another's, entwined in a dance she had learned as a child, had relished as a youth and then abandoned when her lover took off. She unraveled the bandage around her ankle and rubbed it.

The shower had cooled his forehead and the wine warmed his throat as he sat at his table, towel wrapped around his waist. He was surfing the net, reading friends’ blogs, checking newscasts from around the world. His typical winding down the day routine, in the hopes of finding sleep, but tonight it only served to agitate him more. What had prompted him to go downstairs, finally, after living in the building for years? Every day, the stringent tones of the tango melodies inched through his floorboards and he had brushed them aside like so many crumbs from the Zwieback he enjoyed with his coffee. He had taken lessons years ago with his mother, and it had brought her the greatest joy. He had a natural gift, translating the steps of the dance into visual cues on the canvas of his brain. Some of his paintings had been inspired by the arcing move of a leg, the turn of a neck, the outstretched curve of an arm. And his mother, a dancer in her youth, was the perfect partner, teaching him how to lead, by following with intent. He gulped down the last of his wine at the memory of her perfume, a subtle rose water, and vowed to call her in the morning.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark was not helping. A crack in the blinds cast the streetlight on the brocade. turned it into a shining birdcage. It was no use. She would not sleep tonight, like so many lately. A cup of tea might help so she tiptoed into the living room, as if not wanting to wake someone up, but of course, no one else was there. Nonetheless she tossed on a Mexican shawl over her bare shoulders then made her chamomile brew. At the table by the window, she cupped her hands around the warmth and noted the gilded thread still on the spool. What was I thinking, she mused. Sewing again, visiting that awful dive, drinking for the first time in years. And then, dancing with a stranger who somehow knew every move she needed to make. She wanted to laugh it off but couldn't. Her only hope was that maybe tonight, finally, sleep would cure this new awareness of her skin.

She finished her tea and was about to rise from her chair when she noticed a straight line of light leading from under her front door to the other side of the room. She squinted and realized it was golden like the thread on her sewing machine. She got up to inspect and found that indeed, it was a strand of the fiber she had used. Starting at the door, she followed it to the now unraveled hem of her dress. She hadn't noticed this in her rush to remove the sealskin she'd concocted but now could see that the tenacious filament was still attached to the hanging fabric.

Tired of sarcastic commentary and precious bon mots, he logged off and got up. The futon looked inviting so he walked over to the lump of sheets and pillows. Something pressed against his ankle and he looked down his naked leg to see a slight indentation on the skin as if he'd walked into a fishing line. Leaning over he saw that indeed he'd caught a thread that seemed to hang a foot off the ground starting at the doorknob and leading into the bathroom. It was luminous and intriguing and he followed it from the loft entrance to where his belted pants lay hung over a chair. There he could see the end of the thread knotted around his belt buckle. And his heart quickened.

He touched the thread, tracing it lightly with his fingers and contemplated this oddity in his presence, eyeballing the gossamer breath of light shooting from his pants across the room. And then he realized what it was and smiled at the memory of her leg wrapped high around his hip, her pelvic arch plastered against his. Quickly he donned the pants and gently detached the thread, wrapping it around his finger as he put on his shirt. Then, as a wool spinner collects yarn around a spindle, he "wound" his way to the front door. Then down the stairs he followed, gathered the thread, out into the street where it continued along the sidewalk, glinting in the street light here, caught in the shadows there. As fast as he could he wrapped the fragile line around and around his finger, growing a flaxen ring.

Around the next corner he went, down the block's length, hope rising with each inch added to his skein. Then panic set in as the gossamer light flittered on the ground over a subway grate, the frayed end dancing in the air like a malicious nymph. His path had ended. Searching, he could see nothing. He stood there, his chest tightening again. For the second time tonight he had lost his chance.

He hit himself in the temple, tried to remind his brain that he was better off alone. No one got hurt that way. He knew this chase, had lived in the hurricane, been flung against the trees and landed stranded on his back in the fields. He enjoyed this eye of the storm, the lull, really he did. It was better this way, he laughed to himself, shaking his head and turned back to his building. But the sound of a trash can being rummaged made him turn back around. Down the block he saw blackness that opened into the headlights of an approaching taxi. He was tempted to flag it down and go somewhere, anywhere but back to his empty apartment, but then, in the brightness of the near high beam he caught a flash of gold, twittering like a firefly. He ran toward it and the taxi honked in warning, then passed and the flash was gone. Again, he groaned aloud as he searched in the night until finally he again saw the glimmer in the gutter. He grabbed it and clutched it to his heart, then quickly resumed his umbilical path.

Upstairs, she sat cross-legged on the carpet, awake, watching the light flash on and off the thread. It reminded her of the green life line of her father's cardiac monitor. Mesmerizing now as it was then, she knew that by keeping her eye on the screen the line could never go flat. But of course it eventually did. At first she hadn't noticed, as the beeping changed. His heart had flickered on and off, just as this tender thread was now dancing up and down with regularity, to what sounded like foot steps on stairs. (Which neighbor was returning late, she wondered.) Her father's cardiac dance had done the same and then gone flat. And now, so did the golden filament as it ceased movement, lying quietly on the floor. She held her breath, waited to see if it would resume its ebb and flow, half expecting it to withdraw back into the night. But no, the life-line was quiescent and her throat thickened. Was she dreaming finally? Had this day ended with such a sad memory? Would she sleep now?

A soft knock at her door startled her and she noted on the clock that it was 1:26 am. The thread remained quiet on the floor. She crawled toward it and reached out, put her finger on it as if to test its pulse, then tugged it lightly and found a surprising resistance. She pulled again and it gave, then inched under the door toward her. Again, she tugged and again it acquiesced. Slowly she gathered it to her and wrapped it around a finger, forgetting about the knock that had preceded her new task.

On the other side of the door he felt his chest relax, and feeling home, quietly slid down the wall. He sat there unspooling the gold, watching it creep under the door with fits and starts. Soon the rhythms of the her spool/his unspool matched and the dancing line remained at a constant tension, light but attentive. He felt he could sit there all night, unweaving, as the last stanzas of the evening's song played in his head. He could feel her warmth against him, the jut of her hipbones, the soft press of her breast. His eyes closed and he felt sleep encroaching, welcome after weeks of insomnia. The gentle tugs reminded him to lift his finger in time to his heartbeat and the night ticked on.

Inside, she too felt a soft doze come over her and comfort in the glowing vein of light leaking under her door. Her finger twitched like the bobbin of her sewing machine and as has her own fatigue slowed her breathing, the threaded tension diminished as well. She hadn't felt such peace in years and lay her head down for a mere moment. Now, the thread stopped moving as the dance partners, separated by only 2 inches of hollow board, fell asleep, his cheek pressed against the gray lacquer paint on one side and on the other, her head resting on the long arm that reached toward the scuffed sill.