Remains for Spiders- Dresses and dust

 

Photo by Freddy G on Unsplash

A little cramped between uncomfortable neighbors, the shiny dress floats in the wardrobe, as if an anorexic ghost wears it. A golden lace woven on the ethereal sleeves, catching the moonlight in a shameless opulence. The core of the room is dark and silent. A thick layer of dust on the cupboard. A sharp eye would spot active spiders crawling on abnormally elongated webs, fabrics that claim the space, discrete pennants of time.

A solitary piece on the cupboard, as if the cleaning lady has removed all the dust-attracting little things that once filled that upper plank. Yet she could not remove that blackened, heavy silver frame. The lady in the yellow photo smiles softly, glued into an eternal collagen-full attitude. Her head slightly tilted to her right, as if peeking into the wardrobe. Silent overseer of the dress that dares to shine in the moonlight.

It was once brought by a round-bellied courier, who got his fat tip from the trembling hands of the eager lady. Bony long needles, her fingers unwrap the dress. It smells of starch, lemon, and lavender. The wrapping paper fills the flooring while the dress levitates in the golden light. Round and round, she dances, the dress waving around. Invisible traces of rhythm. Long expecting love. Invisible kisses. Interlocking bodies. Traces of self-indulging caresses. Finally, they will all come, the dress will unlock it all. She stops, a bit dizzy with frenzy. She feels foolish. She feels happy.

That is the dress for him. She breathes deeply, looking around, and makes herself a promise: to hide her beautiful dress so that no one will see it. Until he comes. Until the dance night.

He is on his way to her.

He’ll be home soon.

The Allies have won.

It’s 1945.

She calls a driver. She will finally meet him at the airport.

His plane meets the ocean.