Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“Good.” She stands beside him, her feet together, both arms at her sides, coming together to hold her purse near her waist. She rocks effortlessly on her heals, waiting for him to speak. She has not changed her expression since he first saw her.

“Where… where did you get it?” He looks into her eyes for the first time, she turns her head as if to stare down the street. The valet and the doorman are both looking at her. He has not seen the back of the dress yet.

“Its unimportant. Is this where the party is?” She shifts her weight, letting one hand release the purse.

“Yes.” He sees the other men looking at her. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable; she is a silhouette below the lace. He can see her navel, the indication of her abdomen, the falcate shadows of her breasts. Her legs are naked, her chest, shoulders and arms, interrupted only by two thin straps of rose vines. She is nude underneath. The doorman and the valet know it. The dress is an illusion.

“Shall we go in?” She takes two steps, followed by three sets of eyes. He watches her move towards the electric doors, her entire bare back, the small ripples of her rib cage, the crescent demarcation of the beginning of a breast as she raises her arm, the sloping line of her spine, the heart-shaped muscles and the beginning of the curves darkened by the lace, a slit where the two sides of the dress come together, the opening of the back of her legs, her inner thighs… “Are you coming?”

“Yes, of course.” He caught up with her, placed the palm of his hand between her two shoulder blades and returned her smile.

The captain accompanies her down the hall, listening as her heals click against the marble floor, seeing other men, departing from the lavatory or stepping out for fresh air, notice her, their eyes intent upon her. She does not pay attention, or doesn’t appear to, and they make their entrance into the banquet room.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is going to be a bit boring for you,” he said as they stop a few steps inside, gazing out over the crowd of people, the round tables covered in crisp, white cloth, the wait staff scurrying around with plates and drinks, the banner over the stage: PE & PSE A.

“Don’t worry about me, with a few drinks I can find anything amusing,” She held onto his arm and walked beside him towards an open table. She continued to smile, as if greeting the entire room of strangers. She ignored all the greedy eyes.

“All right, you sit here and I’ll go grab us those drinks.” He pulled the chair out for her and she slid into it, placed her purse on the table and grinned as he turned back towards her. By the second time he turned around, about half way to the refreshments, she had three men standing over her and a fourth sitting in a chair beside her. She was talking to them, they were laughing at something she said. They were thinking of her nude, they were thinking of her in their bed, they were thinking about her lips, her skin, her breasts. She was aware of the stolen looks; she did not care.

Vincent saw her smiling, she was amused only by their lack of originality, she was making deprecating comments, they were confused. Whenever it happens, she defends herself. She is armored against it. She has a strategy, a strategy she has perfected over years of accostings, leers, jokes, attempts, and banter. She is a fuck fantasy no matter what she wears. She is constantly sized up, elevator eyed, noticed, she is wearing the dress for him.

When he returns, the men greet him with friendly salutations, but their eyes betray their hearts. They do not get the hint. They remain, reasoning that a proper word, the right comment, perhaps some movement, will have her discarding her accompaniment and they can steal away with her. Vincent sits and tries to converse with the men, who oblige him with quick retorts before returning their attention to his date, who sits back in her chair. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“I wasn’t aware of it being a problem.”

She slides her chair back from the table and uncrosses her legs as one man continues a story about a recent vacation, stuttering as she moves, his eyes, along with every other man in proximity, focused on the suddenly exposed triangle of vinyl between her legs. The gentleman continues, though, with only a momentary lapse. Elisa places her hand in Vincent’s, holding it against her thigh. Why is she parting her legs? She is barely dressed; they can already see her. She runs the back of his hand up her thigh, up to the lace, and slides it down towards the chair. She scoots herself forward so that his open hand is against her and re-crosses her legs, watching herself do this, she glances quickly over to the captain and bites her lower lip, twisting it with her front tooth before she absently returns to the speaker. “Go on.”

The gentleman finishes his story quickly and retreats to another table. The other men find reasons to bid the couple adieu. Vincent has had his hand against her warmth for only a few seconds, but he’s forced to leave her a second time to attend to an uncomfortable situation in his pants. She waits patiently for his return.

“You’ll have to forgive me for ever doubting you,” he said once he was seated again.

“Does that mean you’ve stopped?”

“Stopped what?”

“Doubting me.”

“Do you like to torture people, Elisa?”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

“Possibly.”

“A little bit.”

“Do you hate society?”

“That’s not a very interesting question.”

“Do you hate it enough to loathe it, to not be able to exist in it?”

“I think anyone who says they don’t loathe the life they lead is a pathological liar. Let me ask you, Vincent, are you so Graham Greene pleased with everything there aren’t things you think should be changed? Why is it that change is a dirty word? Why is it so unpatriotic to question things?”

“Change will happen naturally. You can’t force it on people. As far as I know, there’s no general outcry demanding for it to happen. So why is that a handful of people, who we don’t know are right, feel their version of the truth, their version of society, is the correct one and the rest of us are all wrong?”

“I don’t know, I guess that’s why they call it government.”

“You should just be happy with what you’ve got, Elisa. You’re beautiful, look at the way men behave around you, they practically fall over each other to get near you. You’re wealthy, you have your own life, what’s so terrible?”

“I don’t know Vincent, why don’t you tell me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You talk about me making decisions and being content with those, but how is that possible when we’ve got government agencies that send out investigators to find out why I’ve not gotten married yet, or why I haven’t had any children yet, or why I’ve turned down marriage proposals. Why is that any of their business? Who are they that they think they can tell me when to get married? Then, they prescribe drugs for me, drugs that are supposed to make me more agreeable to the idea. Do you really think I need a prescription for that? Why can’t I just do as I please, why do they always have to enforce some rule about making my life pleasant, can’t I decide for myself?”

“But you’ve just said your life isn’t pleasant. Maybe you need someone to help you make it what it should be. Maybe those drugs will help. Have you ever tried to take them?”

“Why should I take them? I don’t want to get married right now, why should I be pressured into taking something that will change my mind?”

“For the good of humanity, Elisa. You are not the only one involved here. There’s millions of people who all expect to be happy. Don’t you see that we all live in a community, that we all affect each other’s lives? One of us doesn’t have the right to upset the whole thing simply because they don’t want to follow the decisions of the rest of us.”