Aimee Bender: The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

“Knife or scissors?”

He smiles. “Knife,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say, “that’s a little much, I think, for me.”

“Scissors.” He relights the butt in the ashtray and smokes it again.

“Okay. Scissors.”

“You can let go of that incredible dress as easy as that?” he asks.

“I can.” I have a bank account the size of your apartment, I’m thinking. I can see, on his bathroom door, an adhesive hook holding up a black T-shirt.

He goes to his bedroom and comes out with a pair of orange-handled scissors. He walks slowly even though he knows I’m watching him. Back on the couch, he doesn’t sit any closer to me but just takes the hem and slices up, up past my hip, waist, side of my breast, under my arm, down the sleeve, up around, to the shoulder, snip at the neck. I feel like he took a letter opener and gently opened me up; he did such a neat job of it. Leaning back on his side of the couch, he replaces the scissors and surveys his work. I smile at him. The next move should be his.

“I don’t think I’m going to touch you,” he says.

I’m there, waiting, body cooled by the breeze coming in off the street through the window behind us.

“What?” I know he can see my breast; it’s right there; I can sense it out of the bottom of my eye.

“Nope.” He stands up and looks around.

“What, are you going to tie me up or something?” I slide out my other arm so that my upper body is exposed, just my legs and waist still swathed in maroon satin. His couch is kelly green and it’s an interesting contrast. I spend a minute appreciating this.

“Tie you up?” He goes to the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water. “No. I don’t do that shit.” He doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m half out of the dress.

“Hello,” I say, “what is going on here? You just opened up my dress.”

“Yeah,” he says, “thanks.”

“But we have six hours,” I tell him, “you said we have six hours.”

“Well,” he says, sipping the water, the counter between us, “what would you like to do?”

I’m up off the couch which means the dress is on the floor and I’m naked in high heels. Which is maybe how I’ve wanted to be all day, those straps crisscrossing up my ankles like painted snakes. I take the water out of his hand and hop up on the kitchen counter and pull him to me with my feet. Then I kiss him, smoke taste still on his lips which are cold from the water. He keeps his mouth closed and I press my body to his. “Six hours,” I say, “is a long time.”

“Lady,” he says, “I don’t think it’s going to happen here. I wanted to cut your dress. I don’t really want to fuck you, that’s just not what I’m looking for today. Sorry if that was misleading.”

He has his water back in his hand. I take it from him and have a sip. It’s just water.

“Yeah, well,” I tell him, “it was. I do think cutting up someone’s dress is misleading.”

Stepping back, he exits my feet without difficulty, and looks straight at me, into me, like he did in the subway, the way that I love. He leans against the refrigerator and a magnet drops to the floor.

“You want to be tied up?” he says then. “I’ll tie you up.”

If I need to scream, out of the millions of people on Market Street, one of them will hear me. Someone would hear me and do something. I can scream really, really loud.

He leads me to his bedroom which is very plain, nothing on the walls, an unmade bed. He has one chair at a desk and he puts me in it and goes to his closet and removes two belts. He starts to weave one of the belts through the slats at the back of the chair and around my hands.

“Bedroom or living room?” he asks, his voice sort of flat.

“Living room, please,” I say.

Lifting me up in the chair, he brings me into the other room. My arms are already bound so he begins on my legs with swift, efficient hands. The window is still open, and I’m thinking about where I should aim my scream just in case.

It seems like he can’t tie both legs effectively without another belt so he reaches down and whips the one out of his jeans, which then sink a little lower on his hips. I can see the broken angle of his pelvis. His nipples are still soft. I lean down, feeling like a deer in a trap, and dare to kiss one of them, bite it a little, those sweet soft fearful nipples.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m doing something here.”

I lean forward to try to kiss him again but he has stepped back, and I can’t move. He circles the chair and tests the belts. I arch my back. My breasts are poking out like cones, my nipples are not soft. He goes to the couch and turns on the TV.

“You go imagine what you want,” he says, “tell me when you want to be untied.”

I jump the chair around some so that I can see him.

“What do you mean?” I say. He sticks his feet up on the coffee table, and starts to gently fold my dress.

“Just what I said.”

“You tie me up just to tie me up?”

He puts the dress in a neat pile next to him, and runs a hand through his hair again. Why does everyone but me look so fucking tired? I get too much sleep. He takes a deep breath. “For right now,” he says steadily, “I’m going to watch TV.”

I watch with him for a minute; it’s a show about Mozart. But I can’t really concentrate because behind the TV is the bathroom door with the hook and I can’t stop looking at that. My father was a millionaire, I want to tell him. You can’t just tie up a millionaire’s daughter and not fuck her. You can’t just tie her up while she’s naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch television! Who do you think you are?

I want to jump the chair over and pounce on him, but I can’t steer it very well, so instead I turn my head around and stare at him, first seductively and then like a pain in the ass.

He looks up after a while. “Yes?”

“I’m bored,” I say.

“You want to go home now?”

“But we have six hours.” It comes out sounding whiny. I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t tell me to shut up and then unbuckle his pants with one quick rip. His face is kind, still tired, cheeks slack. I want to lay his head on my chest and soothe him, poor man who lives alone in this shitty apartment. Poor man. Let me love you here on your green couch for the street to see, let me offer you something magical in the space between my breasts. Please. Please. Let me.

“Lady,” he says again, “you ready to go home?”

I’m thinking about the walk home. I’ll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I’ll borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn’t let me, then I’ll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fineness of the material, and decide I’m a good bet. She’ll tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still browse around. Maybe I’ll tell her the story of this dress, but leave it open-ended. And she’ll giggle, for after all, I am the customer. I’ll take a cab home in a new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apartment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch and it’s one of a kind. I have cable. I have better reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote control that can work through walls.

I look at him again; he’s lighting up another match to continue smoking that same first cigarette.

“No,” I tell him, slumping back down in the chair. “I don’t want to go home yet.” He turns to look at me. “Is that okay?” I ask.

He gives a little nod. “That’s fine,” he says, leaning forward to change the channel. “So. Game show or the news?”