That night, the night. Exorcise it. Now. Begone. But the dress you love. Still. September 21, 2025 15:15

You saw him at an MFA opening. Tall. Lean. Angular face. Dark skin. Wavy hair, longer than you usually found attractive. You had to get to know him. But. He must come to you. You were with your best friend. You made a striking pair. She with skin the color of caramel, lips the color of the apple that might lie beneath that luscious, buttery coat. You, with a face as fair as a Cabbage White and lips the color of an autumn leaf.

You figured that if he were at this opening, he might well be at a party coming up, one that celebrated all things art. You also knew that one sure way to catch a man's eye was to have a gorgeous guy at your side. Were you jaded? A bit. Did you perhaps think that men were competitive with their own sex? To consider that a female with a very sexy guy at her side was more desirable? Of course you did.

That is how he came into the picture. The escort. Yes, let's call him that. Because you did. In fact, when you asked him to meet you at said party, that is specifically what you asked him. To be your escort. You explained his role to him. You thought he understood. You thought he accepted his place. Silly you. Arrogant you. Foolish you.

You planned the evening. What you would wear. McCall's 8736. From 1967. So you. So very you. You made your version about 6 inches above your knee. Out of a lovely linen. He escorted you. You did catch the eye of said artist. (Did I forget to mention the Desirable One, the scalp you sought, was an artist? He was.) Said artist — let's call him Jim — did approach you. You did date him. You were a thing, as much as you were a thing with anyone in those days. Because you could be had, for a moment or two, but you could not be kept.

But the other one had a habit of showing up at your favorite haunts, even on occasion, at your flat. You became friends, you thought. Friends without benefits, perhaps an innocent flirtation. Perhaps a kiss. But a kiss and no more. You had explained to him, quite clearly, with no room for misinterpretation, that you did not want a romantic or sexual relationship with him. You thought he understood. He was a womanizer. Not your type. At all. 

Then came the night, that night, the one that has remained imprinted on your memory for years. He showed up at your door with a case of your favorite wine. Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc. You drank too much in those days. Way too much. And you fell asleep on your sofa. All right. Be truthful. You passed out. 

And when you awakened. He was inside you. You were stunned, even through the alcoholic fog.  You pushed him off. Told him to leave. He did. You said nothing else. For years you thought it was your fault. Because you were drunk. Because you had passed out. It took years for you to realize that because you were drunk, you had no agency. You were mute. Immobile. You felt guilty. Until now. Now you realize: you had no voice.

You go to your closet. You still have the dress you wore that night. It was a favorite. You have not worn it since. But now, you are reclaiming it. You pull it out of the closet. You put it on. It still fits. Perfectly. After all these years, you feel triumphant. You were young. He was younger. You forgive yourself. You are sober now. For 11 years, 3 months, two days. And you forgive him. At last. It is a memory. And only that. Only that.