Textures

‘If love had a texture, it would be satin.’

It’s what I’d often told my brides, tucking and pinning them to perfection as they stood on a pedestal under the bright lights of my little shop. Draped in white and unsteady in shoes they hadn’t yet broken in; they confronted their reflections in my triple mirrors.

‘Satin shines like no other. It’s lustrous. Romantic and soft.’

Their eyes shimmered as they transformed into the princess they’d always dreamed of—joy and anticipation twinkling like their newly-gifted diamonds. Yet, sometimes, they stared into themselves, searching—rigid smiles masking the trepidation exposed in their gaze.

‘The underside of satin is subdued. Durable. With the right level of care, it can last.’

In thirty-five years of working with brides, I knew which marriages would last by the way they responded to my metaphor. Deep inside, those brides knew, too.

* * *

I brush past the three forsaken gowns hanging in the dark storage space that now holds the remnants of my life. The fabric sways in ethereal stillness, underskirts rustling like a whisper. Cardboard boxes pile as high as the ceiling, entombing surplus veils and combs, handbags and shoes. A single rental tuxedo—a late and final return—lays crumpled in the corner, like molted skin.

It’s all that’s left—everything else was sold at auction.  

My husband Bill tried so hard to keep my shop alive after I died. But it was just too much.

* * *

If memory had a texture, it would be Alençon lace.

Its patterns run twisted and corded; beading and adornment stacked. Each design bursts in its own bloom, multi-dimensional and unique. The lace remains timeless—a wisp upon which life’s most intricate stories are built, stitch by stitch.

I was twenty-seven when Bill first came into my life. He’d raced into my newly opened shop, wild-eyed and sweating.

“Help. Please,” he said. “My brother’s wedding is in two days, and my fiancée lost her mind when she saw the tux he picked out for me.”

“Isn’t that his decision?”

“You don’t know my fiancée…”

“What’s the problem?”

“She said I’d look tacky in some low-class dinner jacket.” He sighed. “She wants me to wear a peaked lapel. Whatever that is.”

“There’s nothing low class about a dinner jacket. Besides, with your build, you’d look amazing in it.”

I couldn’t turn my gaze from his broad shoulders, the adorable cleft in his chin, and the pink tinge creeping over his cheeks.

“That means a lot, coming from an expert, that is.”

“I’m a great judge of fit.”

 He grinned. “You can help me?”

I nodded, seeing my future in his eyes.

“More than you know.”

Bill went stag to that wedding. He wore the jacket his brother selected.

And six months later, I wore a sparkling emerald-cut diamond on my left hand.

* * *

The tragedy of forever is that forever is finite.

Bill stood, lost, among the vacant racks and bare walls—my beloved husband a shell, my shop nothing more than a skeleton.

The bell rang, and a young man sheepishly entered the empty space.

“So sorry this is late.” He handed Bill the used tux. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

After that final customer left, Bill stayed for a while, staring out the storefront window.

“Annie,” he whispered. “I can’t believe you’re gone.”

I’m still here! My life disappearing, I was desperate for something to cling to.

My spirit rushed toward the suit, latching on to the fabric as Bill pulled it close to his chest, so close I thought I could feel his heartbeat.

Though I could no longer feel anything.

He flicked the lights off and closed the door, locking my shop like a crypt.

A phantom burrowed in that tuxedo, I traveled to storage, where relics of my little shop live. Where I reside now.

* * *

I dare myself to glance into the triple mirrors leaning against the storage unit’s cinderblock wall. It’s a game I play sometimes, to fight the monotony. In here, it’s dark as night, but that doesn’t matter. I can see the room and all its contents.

What I can’t see is me.

Reflected only are the things left behind, the things I cling to here. The unwanted gowns hang like wilting flowers on that metal rod, beautiful and sad. I wonder why no one chose them when my merchandise was liquidated. I wonder why Bill didn’t toss them out—why they’re here. Why anything is here.

No matter how hard I look, I can’t find myself in the mirror.

I don’t know if my spirit presents as sixteen, twenty-seven or sixty-two—if the ‘me’ at the time of my death becomes my indelible self. If I get to choose.

I wonder if Bill would know me, should we meet in an afterlife beyond… this.  

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

* * *

If regret had a texture, it would be a layer of crinoline.

Its coarse stiffness boasts a firm structure; layers give it strength. It’s abrasive to the skin, its presence obvious, yet hidden—the wearer mired with discomfort, yet resolute to its purpose.

I nestle into the rumpled tux on the floor, longing to pick it up, dust it off, place it on a hanger with the dignity it deserves.

It’s been so long; I can barely sense Bill’s touch in its fibers.

I wish I’d said ‘I love you’ more. ‘Thank you’ and ‘you’re wonderful.’ ‘You’re my everything.’

I wish Bill hadn’t been the one to find me collapsed at the back of the shop that random Friday evening when it all ended. That he hadn’t had those moments of white-hot panic when he attempted CPR before the ambulance arrived.

I wish he wouldn’t remember me like that.

On my wedding day, I wore an ivory satin ballgown with Chantilly lace capped sleeves and a chiffon train embroidered with roses.

Bill cried when he saw me.

It’s why I can never leave this place. In this vault, love lingers—abundant—though the inventory seems sparse.

Our love is satin. It’s always been satin.

* * *

Ⓒ Lisa Fox