If I Am Missing or Dead by Janine Latus

Author:Janine Latus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Later we sit on the deck and have a drink as we watch the sun set.

Wait here, he says, and goes inside. After a few minutes, he calls me in. There on the bed are a red bustier, black thigh-high stockings, stilettos, and a slim-fitting red dress.

I’ll be out here, he says, trailing a hand across my ass as he leaves the room.

I sit on the side of the bed and sigh, and then flop backward onto the still-messy bed. We are at a family resort. It would be fine for me to show up for dinner in something loose and comfortable, something that allows me to move without thinking about whether I’ll fall off my heels or reveal a garter.

Just walking up the wooden walkway in those shoes will be hard, I think. Please don’t let me sprain an ankle.

I stand up and peel out of the shorts and T-shirt I wore on the road. The bustier is tight, the stays running counter to my ribs, the underwires digging into my armpits. I tug at it, lift my breasts up and settle them into the cups, tug the bottom edge over my hips. The lace edges cut into my flesh.

The stockings, though, feel like silken luxury as I slide them over my legs, up my thighs. I smooth them out, point my toes, admire the line they give to my calf. I twist stiffly to hook the garters in the back. I feel like a cross between a prostitute and my grandmother, in girdle and stockings long before the invention of pantyhose. It seems odd that men find this archaic wire and bone exoskeleton attractive.

I step into the dress and pull it up over the bustier, then turn to look in the mirror. I am bulging out in front, Barbie-like. Implausible.

I slide my feet into the heels and walk out to the living room, where he is standing with his back to me. He turns slowly and smiles, making me forget about the wires jabbing into my ribs.

God, you’re sexy, he says.

At the restaurant people stare. They look up from their chicken cordon bleu and marbled Midwestern steaks, the women with some blend of ridicule and fear. The men with lust and what I believe is a wish that their own wives were babes. That’s what Kurt tells me, anyway.

They’re just jealous, he says. They wish they had what we have.

I am not so sure. I sit stiffly, embarrassed, feeling like a whore.

Kurt’s eyes, though, are enough. In his view I glow. It is worth looking different, worth trying later to bowl without bending at the waist—it is, again, a family resort—worth dancing in mincing steps, doing little more than wriggle when we go to the resort’s nightclub, dancing on pencil-thin heels to “The Lady in Red” as Kurt gazes on, adoringly.

When Kurt goes to the bathroom I take off my shoes and rub my feet, relieved. I drop my shoes under the table, ready to let loose and

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.