The Girl in the Flammable Skirt Read Free Page A

again but he has stepped back, and I can’t move. He circles the chair and tests the belts. I arch my back. My breasts are poking out like cones, my nipples are not soft. He goes to the couch and turns on the TV.
    “You go imagine what you want,” he says, “tell me when you want to be untied.”
    I jump the chair around some so that I can see him.
    “What do you mean?” I say. He sticks his feet up on the coffee table, and starts to gently fold my dress.
    “Just what I said.”
    “You tie me up just to tie me up?”
    He puts the dress in a neat pile next to him, and runs a hand through his hair again. Why does everyone but me look so fucking tired? I get too much sleep. He takes a deep breath. “For right now,” he says steadily, “I’m going to watch TV.”
    I watch with him for a minute; it’s a show about Mozart. But I can’t really concentrate because behind the TV is the bathroom door with the hook and I can’t stop looking at that. My father was a millionaire, I want to tell him. You can’t just tie up a millionaire’s daughter and not fuck her. You can’t just tie her up while she’s naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch television! Who do you think you are?
    I want to jump the chair over and pounce on him, but I can’t steer it very well, so instead I turn my head around and stare at him, first seductively and then like a pain in the ass.
    He looks up after a while. “Yes?”
    “I’m bored,” I say.
    “You want to go home now?”
    “But we have six hours.” It comes out sounding whiny. I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t tell me to shut up and then unbuckle his pants with one quick rip. His face is kind, still tired, cheeks slack. I want to lay his head on my chest and soothe him, poor man who lives alone in this shitty apartment. Poor man. Let me love you here on your green couch for the street to see, let me offer you something magical in the space between my breasts. Please. Please. Let me.
    “Lady,” he says again, “you ready to go home?”
    I’m thinking about the walk home. I’ll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I’ll borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn’t let me, then I’ll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fineness of the material, and decideI’m a good bet. She’ll tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still browse around. Maybe I’ll tell her the story of this dress, but leave it open-ended. And she’ll giggle, for after all, I am the customer. I’ll take a cab home in a new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apartment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch and it’s one of a kind. I have cable. I have better reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote control that can work through walls.
    I look at him again; he’s lighting up another match to continue smoking that same first cigarette.
    “No,” I tell him, slumping back down in the chair. “I don’t want to go home yet.” He turns to look at me. “Is that okay?” I ask.
    He gives a little nod. “That’s fine,” he says, leaning forward to change the channel. “So. Game show or the news?”
    “Not the news please,” I say. He clicks the knob three times over. The game show host looks really old. The shy man puts his elbows on his knees and he starts to call out answers to the trivia questions. I close my eyes and listen to the noise of winning fill the room.

WHAT YOU LEFT IN
THE DITCH                
    Steven returned from the war without lips.
    This is quite a shock, said his wife Mary who had spent the last six months knitting sweaters and avoiding a certain grocery store where a certain young man worked and looked at her in that certain way. I expected lips. Dead or alive, but with lips.
    Steven went into the living room where his old favorite chair stood, neatly dusted and