Inspirations: He can poach your eggs. When the sun comes up. September 21, 2008 16:56 2 Comments

Mccall_7026_1940s_strutting McCall 7026, copyright 1947

This is one of those nights.  A night without definitions. A night without boundaries. A night without categories.

You want to go out to dinner. Somewhere elegant. Somewhere spendy. With freshly starched white linen and hovering waiters and a pianist playing unobtrusively in the corner. And, of course, with food that makes even the most persnickety food critic salivate. Salad. Entrée. Bread. Butter. Dessert. Coffee. Fully leaded. You won’t say no. You won’t deny yourself. Tonight.

You’ll slink gracefully through the aisles. You’ll lean forward, chin on hand when he captivates you. You’ll shrug and raise your eyes when his comments make you skeptical. You’ll laugh. You’ll sneer. No games. You’re comfortable in your skin. You are who you want to be.

Sometimes, you’re ladylike.

Sometimes, you’re not.

And, sometimes, when the table is cleared, you want to let loose. You want to hit the dance floor.  You want to sway. To tease. To ronde. To twirl. To wink sassily at the lean, dangerous stranger you pass in the hall when you go powder your nose.

And this is the dress. The dress for dining. The dress for dancing. The dress for playing all night long. If you want to. Maybe you don’t.  But. Then again. Maybe. Maybe you do. You decide. You choose. You have no boundaries. Tonight.

Tomorrow. He can poach egg whites for you. He can make you spelt toast. But not tonight. 

No way.