Life is good. And this is the dress to celebrate that fact. It is.
She is up early today. Unusual for her. She usually sleeps in. Really. Till noon. Sometimes till 1 o'clock. But. She could not sleep. She could not. She tried. And how. Without success. None.
She makes coffee. Stirs cream ? yes, whole, heavy cream, complete with raw sugar ? into the cup. Again, unusual. For her, anyway. Mmmmm. The cream. A luxury. So good. It is bliss.
She puts on a disc she made. She grabs in the dark. She does not know what her hand selects. The music will be a surprise as it comes out of the speakers. She has not listened to music in months. Months. She could tell you how many. She could. She could be exact. To the minute. To the second.
It is Dusty. " . . . is in yours eyes, the look your heart can't disguise, the look of love is saying so much more than just words can ever say . . . tonight, tonight, let this be the start of so many nights like this . . . don't ever go, I love you so . . .
They danced to it so many nights. Under the stars, the skin warm on her arms and her bare, tan legs, his hand firmly, tenderly guiding hers, strong yet, yet so gentle . . .
She is filled with desire. Desire so strong it nearly overwhelms her. She feels as if she opened her mouth, it would seep out. But she will not. She will not. She will keep it inside, that desire for nights long gone, nights that will never come again, desire that makes her feel alive.
Rosemary Clooney's voice comes on next. "Other dancers may be on the floor, dear, but my eyes will see only you . . . " She whips the turn. She is on the dance floor. Her skirt whirls. Flows. She glides.
But. But. He is gone. Gone. "To live it again is past all endeavor . . . and there we were, promising to love forever . . . till clouds came along . . ."
Oh well. Oh well. He is gone. Gone. It is time to accept that fact. She has mourned the dead romance too long. Absolutely.
The sun rises over the mountains outside her window. She sips her coffee. It is so good with cream. She has deprived herself for too long. She has. She knows now: Life will go on. Life will go on. It will. Yes. That is a cliche. And she hates cliches. But she must admit ? she will admit ? cliches become cliches for a reason. They do. Because they are true.
Tito comes on. Cha Cha Cha Mambo. She will go dancing this weekend. Alone. She will make a dress with a flippy, flirty skirt to celebrate. She paws through her patterns. Simplicity 8287 from 1969. She has the perfect lime-green silk crepe. Somewhere in her unorganized fabric stash. She will find it. And she will breathe again. She will. She has risen from her bed before dawn. She can do anything. She can. Even get over him. At last.
Oye Como Va comes on. Her hips wiggle. She won't stop them. She won't. Life will be good again. Heck. Life is good. Now. It is.
And, yes, this gorgeous pattern is available. At The Blue Gardenia. You can't live without it. Can you? Tell me so.