The Girl in the Flammable Skirt_ Stories - Aimee Bender [6]
“Lady,” he says again, “you ready to go home?”
I’m thinking about the walk home. I’ll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I’ll borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn’t let me, then I’ll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fineness of the material, and decide I’m a good bet. She’ll tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still browse around. Maybe I’ll tell her the story of this dress, but leave it open-ended. And she’ll giggle, for after all, I am the customer. I’ll take a cab home in a new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apartment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch and it’s one of a kind. I have cable. I have better reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote control that can work through walls.
I look at him again; he’s lighting up another match to continue smoking that same first cigarette.
“No,” I tell him, slumping back down in the chair. “I don’t want to go home yet.” He turns to look at me. “Is that okay?” I ask.
He gives a little nod. “That’s fine,” he says, leaning forward to change the channel. “So. Game show or the news?”
“Not the news please,” I say. He clicks the knob three times over. The game show host looks really old. The shy man puts his elbows on his knees and he starts to call out answers to the trivia questions. I close my eyes and listen to the noise of winning fill the room.
WHAT YOU LEFT IN
THE DITCH
Steven returned from the war without lips.
This is quite a shock, said his wife Mary who had spent the last six months knitting sweaters and avoiding a certain grocery store where a certain young man worked and looked at her in that certain way. I expected lips. Dead or alive, but with lips.
Steven went into the living room where his old favorite chair stood, neatly dusted and unused. I-can-eat-like-normal, he said in a strange halted clacking tone due to the plastic disc that covered and protected what was left of his mouth like the end of a pacifier. The-doctors-are-going-to-put-new-skin-on-in-a-few-weeks-anyway. Skin-from-my-palm. He lifted up his hand and looked at it. That-will-work, I-guess, he said. It-just-won’t-be-quite-the-same.
No, said Mary, it won’t. That bomb, she said, standing on the other side of the chair, you know it took the last real kiss from you forever, and as far as I can remember, that kiss was supposed to be mine.
That night in bed, he grazed the disc over her raised nipples like a UFO and the plastic was cool on her skin. It felt like they were in college and toying with desk items as sexual objects. Her boyfriend of that time, Hank: Let’s try a ruler. Let’s measure you, Mary. Let’s balance a paperweight on my dick. I’m over that, Mary thought. I want lips now. I just want the basics.
She didn’t say anything, but began to shop at the other grocery store again.
The young man there had always had lips but now they seemed twice as large and full and incredible, as if his face was overflowing with lip. While he ran her milk and eggs and toothpaste over the electronic sensor, she couldn’t stop looking at them, guessing what they tasted like. The warm, salty taste of flesh.
Good to see you, he said, moving those lips. It’s been a while.
Mary blushed and fiddled with the gum at the counter.
Just take a pack, he told her. I won’t tell.
Really? She looked at the flavors and picked cinnamon.
Sure, he said, smiling at her, glancing around to see if his manager was in sight. Think of me while you chew.
She blushed again, pocketed the gum and then grabbed her two full bags in both arms.
Need help? he asked. Let me help you.
Okay. She passed the weight to him, and he walked her to the car which was parked near the river. While he placed the bags into the trunk, she was taken by the desire to join them. She wanted to sit in there and invite the man in with