3.
We had no special expectations that night — just Gary, reading. He had never been a poet before, or if he was, we knew nothing of it. He was a foot surgeon last we saw him, which was in Argentina and a while back. Before that he sold snakes to collectors, and before that the cooking show, of course — the one that made him famous.
* * *
You can’t see Gary and not want to bed him, but that night wasn’t about sex. Walking into Lamplight and seeing Gary, we knew that right away. Tonight was too good for sex.
4.
We danced ourselves happy that night, lightness in our toes, our heels. But we were also productive, successful. We found solutions to problems, fixed things that were previously broken. Some people were cooking or baking, some were inventing gadgets that would replace umbrellas. It wasn’t raining that night, not yet, but we were seeing the bigger picture. Everyone felt understood. It was an unspoken rule that night — if anyone said anything, everyone stopped and listened. We followed with nodding, just to make sure.
5.
When we stepped outside, it was pouring but silent. We stood there, looking at the rain, hearing nothing. Strange, isn’t it, we said half to Gary, half to the sky. Some storms are silent, Gary said, shrugging. In his head, he was already under the covers, perhaps with a lady or two. Sometimes Gary was a tourist, but that night he was savvy. He knew the ways of our town. Come home with us, we whispered. We wanted to touch his cheek, but we knew better. This wasn’t Argentina. I had a good time, Gary said. Thanks. He smiled his Gary smile at us, and we knew the night was over.
6.
Indoors, the walls are inching toward us. Every few hours, we measure the distance. The rain is loud outside, always loud, and we try not to listen. We talk about that night a lot, but as time goes by, it gets harder to remember. Did we grow strawberries? we ask. Did we suck on their long stems, did it make Gary laugh? We usually say yes, yes we did. Gary laughed, we say, he laughed his quiet Gary laugh. But we can never be sure.
* * *
Every once in a while, the rain seems to stop. We look out the window, and it’s hard to tell; all we see is wetness and fog. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the loudness quiets down. We gather in the center of the room so we won’t measure the distance. We sit in a circle and try to pretend that we are back at Lamplight. We sit in a circle and listen to the silence until we remember loud enough to feel.
FULLY ZIPPED
1.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, My name is Andy, if you need anything.
* * *
What is your name if I don’t need anything? I ask.
2.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks, What’s your name?
* * *
Dora Freud, I say.
* * *
Have I pushed it too far? Probably not. In the fitting-room world, I’ve learned, too far doesn’t happen easy. She doesn’t blink. Dora, my name is Lauren if you need anything.
3.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked. Using blue chalk, she writes a number on the fitting-room door. Seven.
* * *
She is wrong. I have eight items. Briefly, I stare at the woman’s mistake. I say nothing, and by saying nothing I transform the mistake into a lie.
4.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked, and as she is counting she is avoiding my eyes. She is looking at the line behind me. What is your name, I want to ask her, and Don’t you want to know mine? But this is not that kind of place.
* * *
I try on a blue dress that ties at the back. I can’t ask the woman for help because she didn’t offer it, and because as a rule I try to avoid the words “excuse me.” I especially try to avoid the words “excuse me” when the next words are “can you zip me up?”
* * *
Instead, I look in the mirror with my eyes closed. I’m trying to picture what the blue dress would look like fully zipped.
5.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Let me know if you need any sizes.
* * *
You’re not that hot either, I tell her.
6.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks me how I am today. How are you today, she says. It sounds like the beginning of a song. Not so great, I tell her; my dog just died. Brownie. I’ve had him since I was eight. Oh, she says. My dog sitter killed him, I add. She seems confused and I don’t know how to help her. Well, she says, let me know if you need anything.
7.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Here, try this, too. She is handing me a navy-blue blazer. This is a small store, the kind some people call “boutique.” There is no one around but us. Is this your store? I ask. I like knowing what’s at stake. The blazer hangs between us on her outstretched arm as I wait for her answer. She shakes her head no, says, My aunt’s. She’s probably lying. I look around to be sure. No one’s aunt owns this store. Just thought you might like it, she says, I have the same one. She starts to turn around, but I grab the blazer first, to be polite. She did pick it just for me.
* * *
When I’m alone in the room, I look at the blazer, touch the inside of its only pocket with one finger. Maybe the woman wasn’t lying after all. I think about what it means — what it could mean — for two women to pick each other’s clothes. I want to know her closet as well as I know my own. I want to show her mine. I want us to coparent clothing items.
* * *
The blazer doesn’t fit. It makes me look like a man. I step outside anyway. Wow, the woman says, wow. I shake my head no. She seems shocked. You can’t be serious, she says. How do I explain that I wanted to love it? How do I explain that choosing something to wear means rejecting all the other clothes in the world, all the other selves I could be? I want to ask if she would like to have coffee one morning; in the mornings I explain myself much better. Thank you for your time, I say. Come back another day, she says. I smile, and the woman smiles back. Whether she lied earlier about the store or not, right now I can tell she’s telling the truth.
8.
As I enter the fitting room, I close the door and stand in my underwear in front of the mirror, afraid. I want to feel that my life cannot go on without this dress. It’s a beige dress with a white collar. There are tiny white butterflies all over, but you need to look closely to see. I slow down, slow down, slow down. But I can’t slow down enough. The moment still comes when I try it on and don’t fall in love. Falling in love never comes easy to me. I look at my disappointment. I say to my disappointment, Let’s keep trying. There is no intention in me when I say it, no truth. But I say it again, because even the worst lie turns real if you repeat it enough. Let’s keep trying.
9.
As I enter the fitting room, I regret avoiding the woman; I feel ready for eye contact. I stop and look, wait until she looks back. Hi, I say. Hi, she says, and starts moving toward me; can I help you? You helped me the other day, I say, with the blazer? I remember you, she says, and I nod because I’m not sure what to say. Are you going to try anything on? she asks. I am not holding any clothes. I’ve been thinking about that blazer, I tell her, that maybe it was just a new look, something I wasn’t used to. Can I see it again? I’m so sorry, she says, we sold that one. Her eyebrows are apologizing too. It’s gone.