The
slip is the color of a warm plum, with scalloped trim at the bust and
knee. Chelsea buys it at a thrift store and washes it twice to get the
grandma smell off. When she holds it, she imagines herself full of
mystery and promise. When she slides it on, the straps feel so delicate
she knows it's only a matter of time before she snaps them with a hasty
tug.
She and John listen to NPR as they dress for work. The bathroom door is
open and he is talking, talking, talking about whom he has to fire
today. Chelsea sits at the vanity in her new slip, mouth in an O,
applying eyeliner. "Hot date?" he asks, rubbing her neck. "You like
it?" She keeps her gaze steady on the mirror. "It was on sale. See, the
tear in the back?"
Around five, Rick Miller leans on the door to Chelsea's office. Rick
is in design. Everyone in design dresses like a barista, but Rick wears
crisp wool suits. "Join us for a drink," he says, and she does. From
their corner of the table she watches, terrified, as red-cheeked
colleagues slip away toward home. She knows he'll touch her knee when
they're alone, hopes she'll resist somehow. She remembers the roast
thawing in the kitchen sink, John's favorite, and she's relieved he
can't see her now. She pushes him away, but the hand returns, higher
now. Rick notices the slip. "How ladylike."
She blushes all the way to the parking lot. It's empty. In the dark he
says, "I want to make you happy." She kisses him, believing he can.