Go unto him (or her) in this sexy Vogue. June 19, 2014 02:05 2 Comments

The view second from the left is my favorite.
    The view second from the left is my favorite.


I'll be there for you. That's what he said. You believed him. You thought he was true. You did. You believed every word. I will be there for you. He was. He was. And then, and then he wasn't. Disappeared. Gone. With nothing but a Pantone Sunshine postcard with one word: "Sorry."

And here you are, in this club, with the sky and the stars for a roof, cool breezes from the ocean for air-conditioning. On an island far from home, far from where you spent those heavenly two years with him. He cooked breakfast every day. Placed it before you like you were his queen. Eggs. Biscuits. Grits. He always knew exactly what you wanted. Your skin melded every night, his the color of toffee, yours the color of a creamy elephant tusk. And each Friday and Saturday night, you danced. Skin glistening. Sweat mingling. You were one.

Until that day. And that word. Sorry.

And now. Now, he is here, in this foreign land, staring at you across the sparsely-filled room. Raul Malo and the Mavericks croon from the speakers, just as they did on those many nights, both those nights of fulfillment when you were enclosed in his arms and those nights of  fruitless, endless longing, wondering what you did, was it something you said, yearning for him, even if he was a cruel cad.

He walks to you. Graceful as a leopard. He bows. He asks for this dance as Raul sings "if your world has only done you wrong and all you find yourself is all alone."

Yes. Despite the past, despite the hurt, you will come unto him. You are mesmerized. He says nothing, not a word, during "Come Unto Me." You are so close. You know he feels the goosebumps on your arms. You wonder if the feel of your skin underneath the cherry-print silk charmeuse arouses him as much as the feel of his skin underneath his starched white cotton shirt excites you. You are mush. A bowl of risotto.

The song fades. Janiva Magness now sings "there's a long line of fools and we're all waiting to get to you."

You sigh. Ugly. But the ubiquitous they says the truth often is. You continue dancing. He whispers in your ear. "Pretend you have never seen me." As you lean back to peer into his eyes, he says "Don't react. This is the first time we have met. My name is Eliseo."'

"Sorry. Sorry. That is all you said. On a postcard." You hiss.

He pulls you closer, pressing your mouth against his chest. He whispers again his mouth teasing your ear: "Please, be quiet. Someone could be reading your lips. You don't know me, we just met."

You wonder, what is this? A James Bond movie? Please. But you will go along. You have no pride where he is concerned.  You want to feel his hands as he removes the lovely dress that caresses your legs so enticingly as you cha cha. The dress you made  with your own hands. Vogue 8567. You are glad you packed so many beautiful garments for your island vacation. At the time you didn't know why you were doing so. But your heart knew. And your body knows, whether he is Federico or Eliseo, you are his.

This beautiful pattern can be yours. At The Blue Gardenia. And yes, we happily ship abroad.