Perfect Night

“Can you zip me up?” she says, her voice all wine and honey, her skin smooth and his favorite tone, her body shapely. she is the vision of what a woman should be, all elegance and beauty in her diamond earrings and blue silk gown, but still quietly and perfectly sexy, showing off her back innocently, the zipper waiting at the bottom. The ring he gave her shines discreetly but gorgeously on her left ring finger. The setting is perfect, with the elegant hotel room around them, the moon full and fat right outside their window, looking close enough to touch, the stars winking around it. He loves her then, a sudden full passion, but for him it feels like a life long sentiment, or maybe since the moment he laid eyes on her. She is heavenly perhaps, even her name sounds oddly celestial to him. He smirks and leans closer, placing one hand on her left shoulder strategically, two fingers on the fabric of her dress, the other three on her smooth, slightly scented skin. His hands, large and brown and calloused from the work he managed to put in when he was younger draws up the zipper slowly, the thumb of his other hand rubbing slow circles onto her shoulder blade. She smiles. He kisses her neck and wishes she were his wife.

In the bathroom, minutes before, she applies perfume and cream and makeup with the concentration and precision of someone defusing a bomb. She smiles at herself in the mirror, to make sure the effect is right, and wishes, not for the first time, that her work could be more legitimate that being the arm candy of rich older men at events, then warm their beds afterwards. She slips on the blue silk dress, worth more than anything she’s ever owned, and put in the diamond earrings, and heaves a silent sigh. If only this really were her life. If only it weren’t charade, if only they were in love. The night is perfect, the moon round and fat and close, a night for love. It is not to be. He’s handsome yes, but all she knows of him is that he’s rich, and his name. She hasn’t even given him her real name. Then she locks away the melancholy firmly in some secret box in the recesses of her brain. She reminds herself firmly that he is married, chained to another woman and her bed, in love with her, that shadowy figure, either too prudish or plain to be worth showcasing and ravishing. The ring she slides on last, with a quiet fury, because it makes her become someone else, a not-her, and makes his little wife fantasy complete. She chastises herself for having that fantasy herself. Then she takes a breath and becomes the character he has drawn up for her. She’s ready. She’s got a pay check to earn. She opens the bathroom door, and walks toward him. “Can you zip me up?”