Lady in Red
I'm dancing with me
Stiletto heels...???
Twelve hours. Twelve hours straight, solid gossip, the eight million men in our lives, the eighty million other pangs and reasons the clerk at the Great Big Store suggested I use concealer.
Shimmering nailpolish and some new pencil that turn my eyes into olives, the sort of skirt that's going to make my boss listen when it crosses back and forth in front of the whiteboard.
Stiletto heels, plain and graceful, I walked in them from St-Germain back to our metro line, a whole new timbre of clackitty clack.
Charmel. I know that it is going to be a long time before I spend 200$ on underwear again, but only a dryad would wear this set, and I been savin' for it ever since I saw it in the window that Sunday in Brussels. Incidentally, if anyone seems to find themselves with a surplus of Charmel lingerie, balcony cut, with a B-cup, I'm accepting donations, which, je vous signale is not something I do often.
And the red dress. The Red Dress. Frilled here, swooping there, diving at the waist and turning my hips into 1950s-cut sin.
I can't believe I'm wearing this dress.
I can't believe that guy on the metro was talking about ME when he whispered just a little too loudly "I love it when a woman can wear shoes like that and not look vulgar".
Anna Maria and her million compliments on how the mad little blonde has all growed up and still stayed a wonderfully mad little blonde.
Anna Maria and her gasp as I grabbed this shade of fuck-me-red from the display of my new favourite store.
Anna Maria, and the greatest compliment she paid me today, as we rounded off our veal and courgettes with a banana-and-caradamom mousse (which I have to try to make), as she listened wide-eyed as I sang her one of my Vaccaj's because I wanted her to translate the italian for me.
"Monstre, you have a beautiful voice."
In a red dress, and stiletto heels, still planning on jeans and a "got root" sweatshirt to the pool tomorrow, and no matter the weather, attire, or preoccupation,
suddenly singing.
The one compliment that wasn't expected or called for on Annual Shopping Day.
It's not a new look, it can't be, not with this wild mess of hair
but it's just a little neater, a little more comfortable
and it still lets me sing.
This signals the end of the single and final interlude in which monstre will ever find herself discussing clothes.