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“M-my favorite design.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not sure why he’s asking me this. Or why he’s looking at me, watching me with such intense eyes.
But still I glance down at my notebook, ready to do his bidding.
Before I even open it and flick through the pages, I know which one I’m going to pick. It’s purely by luck that I brought this notebook with me today because it holds my most favorite dress ever.
When I find it, I give it to him and this time, he takes it without hesitation. When he dips his face to look at it, I go closer as well.
So much so that the toes of our shoes touch.
And for some reason, it feels like such an illicit thing, such a forbidden thing, our shoes touching, that I have to grab my skirt.
I have to fidget with my glasses as I say, “So this is an evening gown and it’s all dark purple. It has netted full sleeves and a deep V in the front. That’s also covered by this thin netting and…”
I have to take a pause here because he runs his pinkie over the deep net-covered cleavage — it’s even deeper than the dress that I wore on Friday, going down almost to the belly button and all covered by this thin gossamer-like netting — caressing the hills, the valley between the breasts.
And I swear to God, I feel it on my own skin.
I feel his finger skimming the valley between my breasts.
I even arch them up as I stand here, all shameless and restless. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples all tingly.
“Matches what?” he prods, still staring down at the dress.
It’s hard to pull myself away from these rioting sensations and his phantom fingers but I do it. “It, uh, matches the back in the same way. It plunges down all the way to the small of the back and it’s covered by netting also.”
There’s another sketch depicting that and he takes his time absorbing that as well.
To banish the tingling that is now in the small of my back, I keep pushing forward. “And then the bodice is studded with sequins and —”
“Your favorite,” he murmurs.
Making me swallow. “Yeah.”
“Along with polka dots.” I go to confirm that but he continues murmuring, “And suede.” Another pause for a second before, “And of course, purple.”
And now I can’t even make myself nod to confirm.
That yes, these are the things I love. These are my favorite things.
Things that I’ve never shared with anyone before.
Except him.
My enemy.
He somehow knows me more than anyone else in my life. He knows me the best.
“What’s it called?” he asks, his dark head bent, his chocolate chip eyes on the page.
“Troubled Sweetheart,” I whisper.
At this, he finally lifts them, his eyes. “Troubled Sweetheart.”
“I named it after a lipstick shade,” I tell him because I want him to know, because he’s already proven that he’ll understand. “Purple, of course. I love how it’s tight all the way down but then the hem spreads out like a train. Only in a big wavy circle. Not to mention, it’s sexy with all these deep plunges and Vs but then the netting gives it more of a classic, understated, innocent vibe.”
And as always now that I’ve started talking about it, about my design, I find that I can’t stop. I go even closer, the tips of our shoes pressing against each other as I lean over and put my finger on the page myself.
“Oh, and this matching headpiece? It’s sort of like a dark halo, you know? So it’s angelic but not really because it’s dark. So it’s a play between a troublemaker and a sweetheart. Hence Troubled Sweetheart.” I smile slightly, staring at my own design. “I haven’t decided on the fabric yet. I’m torn between something super smooth and silky, and something more shimmery. So organza or chiffon, maybe? But yeah. It’s my dream dress. Because I think it’s my most daring design yet. I’d love for someone to wear it one day. Somewhere.” Then, “Like on a runway or something.”
I freeze as soon as I say it.
Also, blush.
I don’t even know why I say it.
I guess it’s already been established that I say the most outrageous things to him, but still. This is beyond that.
This is beyond outrageous and fantastical.
I mean, yes, I love designing dresses. And the joy of designing dresses lies in the fact that one day someone will wear your creation. Which is why I gift most of the dresses I make.
And okay, so maybe I’ve thought about having other people — people who aren’t my friends — wearing these. While they catwalk on a runway.
But.
It doesn’t mean that I have an active desire to do so. Mostly because it’s crazy hard. It’s crazy hectic. It’s crazy crazy. And I don’t have it in me to accomplish something like that when I can barely sit through a class or graduate high school without butting heads with my guardian turned principal.
