Yellow Dress

Bald, with a shiny head and black glasses, eyebrows tapering at the sides, one eye bigger and the other eye higher, one ear back and one ear forward, the mouth as one straight line, the shadow of the hair beneath his skin, how the gray cotton sweats, the olive green undershirt, how he sat sternly without flinch, straight without blinking, military eyes, muscular, but more as an attitude than as a build, he pointed his head.

You, in the satiny yellow dress, legs crossed on a stool that was higher than he was, seemingly on a stage, his eyes at the level of your crossed knees. Had you uncrossed them, he might have peered.

You didn’t dare uncross them. In fact, you pointed your crossed legs as far left as you could get them. Your back ached. Both hands were on your knees. Your head taut at the neck pointing at him but only because you thought staring back would get his respect. But, you didn’t say a thing about the grip he had on you. Judgmental, crossed-over, way too over the line, but there you were. The city was expensive. Just outside and down the street were the strung-out drug dealers and the stains in the concrete, the smell of urine, and a kind of fear that you were almost as close as they were to having nothing to show for yourself but a kind of speech that was more drama than truth. You thought of the man with silver hair and thin jacket lying on the ground versus the man who had built up corrugated boxes and barricaded himself in the doorway.

You thought of this and the transaction at the door of Piano Fight and Red-light Lit. They wrote about sexual innuendo, but here it was real. This guy was paying you. In that thought, you released your legs. Or, at least the tension gave way. All your muscles in your arms and legs melted.

He watched you. He smiled. Or at least, his eyes smiled and his hands went up in front of his mouth and he crossed his fingers. Only his eyes looked at you through his glasses that reflected the laptop screen that was open. His hands dropped quickly and then his left hand went up and one finger went across one nostril and the others were in a fist that covered his mouth. His thumb went under his chin and back to his throat. He felt all of this, like his hand kept him from moving forward although he sensed he had won.

You giving in also caused him to soften. It was like a nonverbal concession. You had what he wanted and he had what you needed because it was all over if you didn’t come up with the rent. Where was your next meal? You were alone, except for the inevitability. Two people in a room staring until an agreement was made.

You uncrossed your legs. He saw that you weren’t wearing anything and you let him. In fact, for a second you even went up on your tiptoes and moved your legs as far apart as you could. You felt the edges of your labia part, the air move in with a breath, and you sat there looking into the furtherest corner of the ceiling.

He got out of his chair and walked over. He placed one hand on one leg and the other on the other leg and pulled your dress back. You were completely exposed. You looked down at yourself and said: “What was the big deal?”

His head was next to your mouth. He sweated. You smelled him. You closed your eyes and one tear fell onto your yellow dress.