Fitting

I went to my favorite dress shop to survey the latest

styles on display. Two fully clad mannequins were up:

one flaunted a refreshing red summer outfit while

the other elegantly wore a long black dress. I walked into

the new arrival’s aisle and ran my fingers through the

chiffon pleats of the delicate red skirt and, at once, went on

to caress the dark silky frock next to it. A closer look

at the dress revealed careful hands must have sewn

the chic lace near its lining. I took the pleasure of trying on

the smooth black dress—and oh, how it thrilled!

The dark fabric embraced the shape of my body

like a second skin; it hanging softly on my breasts

and falling gently to the curve of my hips and round thighs.

By then, I made up my mind. The dark dress will be mine.

But how my undressing gently uncovered these things long gone by:

The comfort of slipping into cool darkness with his hands gesticulating

immeasurable yearning, to nights on the living room floor and stripping

to the TV on static. I pulled down the black straps on my shoulders and

inevitably conjured his tender fingers caressing back, his warm hands

slowly stroking my uneasy arms. Stripping down my torso to my hips,

I could feel him embracing, mildly touching, gradually descending,

as I lower the silky garment to completely slide down the dark

dress to my touchy thighs and legs. And how I made up reasons

as to why these memories need not be agonizing (I find little

gratification in others, this hasn’t been surpassed at all these days),

until I got dressed and went out of the fitting room. I soon fell in line 
behind this pretty lady who held the same dress as mine, only to stop

in excruciating wonder to ask whose body could he be holding now?