Aimee Bender: The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

“Cats, no question,” he says, pill-rolling with his fingers. He’s drugged out, but I don’t care. What I care about is dogs, and I am disappointed.

I thank him, run a hand through my hair and go back to sitting at my surveillance spot, front row, facing backward, right behind the driver who winked at me when I came on.

I wear dresses on the subway. I have a lot of money from my dead father who invented the adhesive wall hook. He invented it when he was in his twenties and the world scrambled, doe-eyed, to his doorstep — no one cares for nails anymore. He died when I was three so I never really knew him enough to miss him and there are millions of dollars for me and my mom, and she isn’t a spender. So it’s just me! It’s all me! I don’t much like expensive cars or gourmet dinners; what I love are fancy dresses. Today I am wearing maroon satin, a floor-length dress with a V back and matching sandals with crisscross straps up my ankles. My ears are lit by simple diamond earrings. I look like I should know how to waltz, and I do.

The men are pleased when I come on the subway because I am the type who usually drives her own car. I am not your average subway girl, wearing black pants and reading a novel the whole time so you can’t even get eye contact. Me, I look at them and smile at them and they love it. I bet they talk about me at the dinner table — I give boring people something to discuss over corn.

The beanpole man stands up to exit and nods to me. I wiggle my fingers, bye. His death eyes crinkle up in a wise way and I almost want to chase after him, have him look down on me with that look and tell me something brilliant about myself, unveil my whole me with one shining sentence, but there’s really no point. He couldn’t do it. His eyes crinkle up because he’s been in the sun too much — he doesn’t even know my name.

I think I’m done, that I’ve checked out the whole car, when I see that behind the older woman in the dull beige suit who keeps trying to sleep, there is someone I didn’t notice before. The shy man. He is leaning against the window, wanting a cigarette and not looking at me. I go sit down right next to him.

“If you smoke out the window,” I tell him in a low voice, “no one will notice.”

“What?” He’s about ten years older than I am, and his eyes are bright, watery even.

“I won’t tell if you smoke.”

He gets it and blinks. “Thanks,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

My dress is slithering all over the orange plastic seat, sounding like a holiday.

“So, what’s your name?” I ask.

He has his head looking out the window, watching the dark cement flash by. The back of his hair is matted down, like he’s just woken up from a nap.

“Or where are you going?” I say louder.

He turns to me, eyebrows up.

I lean in a little. My hair falls forward and I can smell my shampoo which smells like almonds. “I’m just curious,” I say. “What stop?”

“Powell,” he says. “Your hair smells like almonds.”

I’m so pleased he noticed.

“Do you prefer dogs or cats?” I ask him, even though I don’t really, at this exact second, need to know.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“What?” My dress isn’t holding to the seat, I could slide right down to the floor.

“I prefer,” he says, “whichever turns around when you call its name.”

He may be shy but he looks me in the eye the whole time.

The train strains to a stop and he stands up to slide past me. But I’m up with him. The bottom of my dress is dusty from the floor of the subway and I’m thinking it looks sort of vintage that way. He presses on the handle and he’s out the door really fast, and I just barely have a moment to look at the car I’ve been surveying and watch the people watch me exit. A man with a briefcase smiles back but the women all ignore me.

I float behind the shy man for a few blocks; he’s up the escalator and onto Market Street and doesn’t notice my burgundy shadow behind him until he ducks into a retail shoe store and then I’m hard to miss. The salesgirls are on me in one second, I have Purchase written all over me. So they think. This is a lame shoe store.

“Hey,” says the man, “you following me?”

“May-be.” I saunter over to a pair of shoes and pick them up even though they’re so ugly and poorly made.

“Those are one of our best sellers,” says salesgirl number one who has lipstick on her front tooth.

“That is not a good selling point for me,” I tell her, “and you have lipstick on your tooth.”

Her head ducks down and she rubs her forefinger on it. “Thanks,” she says in a quiet whisper, like it’s a secret, “I hate that.”

The man has left the store — one second of conversation with a stupid salesgirl on my stupid part, and he’s gone. The store owner is behind the counter watching me glance around at the racks of shoes and he tilts his head, indicating the staircase behind him.

“You his girlfriend?” he says.

“Maybe,” I say again. Really: if the shy man didn’t care at all, if he hadn’t looked at me with a certain sly hunger then I wouldn’t be here. But he was half there with me, I saw him thinking about the heavy sound the satin would make piled on his floor, I saw him wondering. He may have wondered very quietly, but that still counts.

I thank the store manager by placing one solid hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. Maybe someday I’ll come in here and buy fourteen pairs of shoes from him. Not like I’d wear them, but I could go give them to homeless people who must like a change every now and then. I’ll buy practical shoes, cushioned soles, no heels or anything. You probably walk a lot when you’re homeless so heels would not be a good choice.

The staircase is fairly dark but you can still sense the glare of the daylight outside so it doesn’t feel scary, just cool and slightly musty. Luckily, there’s only one apartment at the top of the staircase. I try the door and it’s open. For me, it’s more nerve-wracking to knock than to just go on in. He’s sitting in his living room with a beer and no shirt, watching TV. He looks at me, sort of amused, not really surprised.

“Persistent dress lady,” he says, “you are one persistent cookie.”

I love being called cookie. I love it. I love it.

I go to sit next to him on the couch.

“Do you know how to waltz?” I ask.

He flips a few channels and then turns off the TV. “So what’s the deal?” he says. “Are you a prostitute?”

The thing is, I’m not offended. This makes me feel like he’s getting the sexual vibe which makes me feel good, you know, alive.

“No,” I say. “I just like you. Do you have plans tonight? It’s Friday night, maybe we can do something.”

“I have plans tonight,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. In six hours.”

His chest is tan and a little bit doughy, soft nipples that look like a woman’s. For some reason it’s hard for me to even look at those nipples. They look so fragile, like fruit pulp waiting to be cut into wedges and served up in an exotic kiwi salad. It makes me want to crawl on top of him and put my thumbs on his soft fruity nipples and press down on them hard like they’re elevator buttons: hey, baby, take me to a higher floor. I wonder if he’s feeling lucky, I mean how often does a beautiful girl follow you home and come into your house? That’s lucky. That’s what guys wish for.

“So.” He leans back on his couch and grabs a cigarette from the side table. I knew it. “I suppose I’d like to cut that dress right off of you.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette and then stubs it out. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. There’s the sound of all the cars and buses going by on Market Street, and it reassures me.