Her Red Dress
He straightened his bowtie and looked down. Shoes tied? Check. Shirt smooth? Check. Oh, almost forgot! He looked around and hunched over, his fingers at his belt buckle. Good. Fly zipped. He was presentable now.
He was nervous now.
He waited at the front of the building with the rest of his group. Tonight was a special night - tonight was the dance in the auditorium, and they were waiting for the bus from Saint Mary’s to pull up and unload their friends, their dates. He would see her again tonight and he was nervous.
Would she still remember him from the last time?
He wore his best suit, black and slightly short at the hemlines. Best black tie. Best shiny shoes. He wanted to look good for her, to see her smile, to shine in her eyes.
He imagined what she would be wearing tonight - he hoped it was the same red dress she wore to the last dance. It looked incredible with her white-blonde hair, her green eyes. Her soft, perfumed skin. The bus pulled in.
He held his breath and swung his arms and watched as they unloaded into the parking lot. Where was she? He didn’t see her. He was worried she hadn’t come. He stood as high as he could on his toes, which wasn’t very high at all now, and tried to see her over the crowd.
Finally, there she was - being helped from the bus by the driver.
She was wearing her red dress.
He went to her quickly, pulling the small corsage he had bought from its wrapper and discarding the plastic in his pocket. She smiled at him and he took her hand, slipping the flower onto her thin wrist, careful, so careful.
But there was no recognition in her face.
“Thank you,” she said, still smiling her bright smile, the one he loved to see. She patted his hand on top of hers and asked, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Charlie.” He had been prepared for this, but it still hurt. “Remember?”
She grinned and he showed her through the door. Poured some punch with his shaking hands. Brought her a small sandwich and sat with her as she talked about her family, her dog, her friends. Laughed at the appropriate places. Frowned when she wasn’t looking. Tears in his eyes.
He asked her to dance and she said yes, because she always said yes. He led her to the floor and turned to take her arms around his neck and his breath caught in his throat. The dim room, the bright light on the dance floor, her hair was shining and she was still, waiting for him. He noticed her green, sparkling eyes, her soft, pale skin, drawn down and wrinkled, her carefully applied and shaky lipstick lines, the missed button near the top of her red dress, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
The man came around with the Polaroid and said, “Charlie, look here!” and snapped the photo. As it was drying out, he said, “You have the most beautiful date in the room!” She grinned at him as she had grinned at Charlie and he was gone.
He pulled her to him for one last dance and smelled her shampoo, the light scent of Dove on her skin. He savored every second of her in his arms, because he didn’t know when he would see her again. If she could just remember his name, just this once, he would die happy.
The song ended and he kissed her hand. The bus was loading, the dance floor was emptying, the Polaroid man was apologetic but insistent. “Bernice, you must go now.”
She had her arms wrapped around him, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He pulled lightly at her shoulders and she looked up at him. She was crying.
“Goodbye, Charlie.” And then she was gone, too.
She’d remembered his name. He sat down on his bed that night with the Polaroid picture, studying it carefully. She was as beautiful as he always remembered. He placed it on his dresser, next in line to the three that preceded it. Always her red dress. Always her big grin. He kissed the largest photo in the shiniest frame. She wore a white dress with a long veil, but the smile was the same.
He bent, slowly, careful of his bad knee, and kneeled at the foot of his bed. Braided his fingers together. Prayed.
Turned out the light.
He was nervous now.
He waited at the front of the building with the rest of his group. Tonight was a special night - tonight was the dance in the auditorium, and they were waiting for the bus from Saint Mary’s to pull up and unload their friends, their dates. He would see her again tonight and he was nervous.
Would she still remember him from the last time?
He wore his best suit, black and slightly short at the hemlines. Best black tie. Best shiny shoes. He wanted to look good for her, to see her smile, to shine in her eyes.
He imagined what she would be wearing tonight - he hoped it was the same red dress she wore to the last dance. It looked incredible with her white-blonde hair, her green eyes. Her soft, perfumed skin. The bus pulled in.
He held his breath and swung his arms and watched as they unloaded into the parking lot. Where was she? He didn’t see her. He was worried she hadn’t come. He stood as high as he could on his toes, which wasn’t very high at all now, and tried to see her over the crowd.
Finally, there she was - being helped from the bus by the driver.
She was wearing her red dress.
He went to her quickly, pulling the small corsage he had bought from its wrapper and discarding the plastic in his pocket. She smiled at him and he took her hand, slipping the flower onto her thin wrist, careful, so careful.
But there was no recognition in her face.
“Thank you,” she said, still smiling her bright smile, the one he loved to see. She patted his hand on top of hers and asked, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Charlie.” He had been prepared for this, but it still hurt. “Remember?”
She grinned and he showed her through the door. Poured some punch with his shaking hands. Brought her a small sandwich and sat with her as she talked about her family, her dog, her friends. Laughed at the appropriate places. Frowned when she wasn’t looking. Tears in his eyes.
He asked her to dance and she said yes, because she always said yes. He led her to the floor and turned to take her arms around his neck and his breath caught in his throat. The dim room, the bright light on the dance floor, her hair was shining and she was still, waiting for him. He noticed her green, sparkling eyes, her soft, pale skin, drawn down and wrinkled, her carefully applied and shaky lipstick lines, the missed button near the top of her red dress, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
The man came around with the Polaroid and said, “Charlie, look here!” and snapped the photo. As it was drying out, he said, “You have the most beautiful date in the room!” She grinned at him as she had grinned at Charlie and he was gone.
He pulled her to him for one last dance and smelled her shampoo, the light scent of Dove on her skin. He savored every second of her in his arms, because he didn’t know when he would see her again. If she could just remember his name, just this once, he would die happy.
The song ended and he kissed her hand. The bus was loading, the dance floor was emptying, the Polaroid man was apologetic but insistent. “Bernice, you must go now.”
She had her arms wrapped around him, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He pulled lightly at her shoulders and she looked up at him. She was crying.
“Goodbye, Charlie.” And then she was gone, too.
She’d remembered his name. He sat down on his bed that night with the Polaroid picture, studying it carefully. She was as beautiful as he always remembered. He placed it on his dresser, next in line to the three that preceded it. Always her red dress. Always her big grin. He kissed the largest photo in the shiniest frame. She wore a white dress with a long veil, but the smile was the same.
He bent, slowly, careful of his bad knee, and kneeled at the foot of his bed. Braided his fingers together. Prayed.
Turned out the light.