He stroked the marble smooth surface of the lid before lifting it to reveal the almost-translucent scented wrapper, which fluttered a little in the slight draft caused by the air-conditioner, like papery fingers beckoning him to unearth the treasure that lay hidden beneath them.
With as much care as handling an old book with yellowed and worn-out pages, he unfolded the wrapper and brought out the garment within. A flurry of taffeta and tulle cascaded to the ground, nearly touching it, like water tumbling down the mouth of a waterfall, as he held the dress between his two thumbs and index fingers, as if afraid that his grubby fingers and palms might stain the greenish-hue cloth.
“Magnificanto,” he murmured, tasting the word on his tongue.
He strode over to her, gown in hand. She was gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling window as usual, her back straight and stiff, shoulders slightly pushed back, chin held high, the posture of a confident, educated and social-ladder-climber of a lady.
“Look what I’ve got you: an exquisite vintage evening gown, your favourite,” he cooed into her ears, softly as the rustle of the leaves falling on the other side of the plane of glass. As a reply, she continued staring out, her eyes unfocused, though he thought he saw her lips curled delicately. Draping the gown over his arm, he led her to a dark corner and began undressing her from the stylish Emporio Armani office wear with fumbling but careful fingers. Gorgeous as she looked in the charcoal-black suit matched with a knee-length tight-fitting skirt and a pearl-white blouse, nothing would accentuate her figure more than this particular antique evening gown. All eyes would be on her.
Soon, the clothes were at her feet, leaving her bare. He precariously undid the zip at the waist of the gown and slipped it through her up-stretched hands and over her head, taking care not to ruffle her auburn hair. The crisp, smooth woven fabric slithered down her body, the silky material caressing her. It was like soaking in a bathtub of butter filled to the brim.
He made some final adjustments and took a step back. And sighed in admiration. The celadon green bodice hugged her torso in an off-shoulder style, with the lace opening at the very top of it to show a tad paler shade of green tulle. A handful of crystal beads peppered the bodice, like freckles on a child’s face, which was lined in the former shade of green rayon taffeta. Running down the length of the lower half of her 1.7m frame was a flared skirt of emerald hue rayon taffeta.
He let his eyes roved over her in the gown appreciatively, raking her beauty with his mere sight, absently tracing a finger across the collar bones and down the length of one arm, though he was careful to avoid coming in contact with the clothe, as if his touch could sing it…
“Jackson! What the hell’s taking you so bloody long to dress the mannequin?!”
Swearing to himself, Jackson hurriedly, but not carelessly, placed the mannequin back at its location by the display window, allowing it to once more gaze out onto the bustling street beyond the plane of glass. Gathering the Armani outfit hastily, he rushed to the back of the shop to resume his work.
Writing spree + exhuastion and weariness from assignments + influence of the full moon = crappy essay with attempted humour and failed punch line
Honestly. I should try writing when the world's still basked in the glory of daylight instead of night time when the shitty assignments (and other unholy activities) have sapped the writing mood out of me. Ugh.
Feel free to criticize though. God knows my English is deteriorating (a certain slut could affirm this). Hopefully the next short passage/essay I post would be more worth reading.
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