Dress

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Bridget Hayes

You disappear tangled in shoulder straps, elastic bra bands, hanger hoops and swaths of fabric.
Hands punch and reach for holes, neck crunches, you try to turtle your way out, searching for the
opening, hurtling toward sunshine. Squirming, knees bent, writhing, one hand finds the sky while
the other arm, still pinned, knows it hastily needs to rescue the earring connecting your ear to the
silky liner. Finally loose, your head breaks free making room in the tube of flowery cloth for
your arm to unfold and reach out the right sleeve to freedom.

It is a workout. You wonder if it is even worth it. Is this fashion futile? Is style seeking silly?
You just need a dress to wear to the wedding. It’s such a short event. You’ll have it on and off
before you know it. You consider wearing that boring beige one that has been hanging in your
closet, unworn for years. You hate the thought of dressing for others and just want to find a dress
that pleases you. But you want to show some life, some pizazz, with maybe a small side of sexy.
You love the feel of what just-the-right-dress can do for you.

Now over your head, draped over your chest and bunched up on your middle, you help the
remaining fabric fall over your hips and down your legs like water. You sigh, relax, straighten
your back - half posing, and look into the mirror.

Not sure of what you’ll find, of who will reflect back to you, not confident that you’ll get what
you are looking for, you muster the energy to concentrate and focus your eyes on the figure
before you. You are face to face and alone with your very own self. Your glance shines back to
you shyly, and you register a soft, almost vulnerable content.

Your struggle and distaste for the dress hunt fall away. The distractions of chattering customers,
slamming dressing room doors, and clanging hangers become muffled. You slip into an almost
meditative state and can hear the sound of nothing slightly ringing in your ears. You feel the
warmth of your skin and regular pulsing of your heart. You are swallowed up by a humble sense
of quietness. You pause, soften, and utter a tiny involuntary, “Ohhh.” Like you realize
something, like something was made known to you, like you just shifted into a new perspective.

It takes your breath away. You remain still, staring in the mirror, but no longer at yourself in a
dress. No longer at shape, style, and glamor. You are halted by the gift of seeing your own
authentic beauty, the shimmer of your essence, the core of the magnificent truth of who you really are.

Author’s Statement: Inspired by the magic of friendship, I wrote this story at Raleigh-Durham International Airport while waiting for my flight.

Bio: Bridget Hayes lives in Northern California with her wife and two orange cats. Her writing is published or is forthcoming in Yellow Arrow Journal, Wild Roof Journal, Ionosphere, Ginosko Journal, Ink In Thirds Magazine, and Bear Paw Arts Journal. She is a tech librarian who helps people overcome their fear of technology. When she is not reading or writing she is likely outside. Visit https://bridgethayes.carrd.co/ or follow her on Instagram @beoutside2writes.

Fried Chicken and Pumpkin Pie

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Adrianne Beer

My father and I got into a fight over a kitchen mouse that lived in our bread. He wasn't
willing to put a trap out. He said “that’s what the cat is for.” I scoffed at him, "The mouse will be
dead either way."
My father is a soft man. He throws away important mail before it is opened and fixes
two-dollar mugs with seven dollars' worth of super glue.
The first time my heart was broken, he bought me fried chicken and pumpkin pie. We
were in charge of dinner because my mother was at work that night. We strolled the grocery
store quietly. After 20 minutes he had ordered eight fried chicken breasts from the deli and I
picked out a sale pumpkin pie.
"For the whip cream we have at home," he said to me when I set it in the cart.
I was home from college for the weekend. I had arrived hungover and puffy. The boy that
wasn’t my boyfriend had broken things off days before. He said we could be friends. I got drunk
and sent him 22 unanswered messages. The next day I drove 2 hours home just to save face.
After the grocery store, we stopped at the Redbox and the gas station. My father went in
alone and came out with two Coke freezies. The movie we picked was War Dogs. It wasn’t
good, but we laughed at the same things. I ate the skin off one piece of chicken before cutting the
pie.
It was during the scene where Jonah Hill and the less known actor were being chased
through the desert that I told my father I might be gay. He was in mid chew and mumbled
something. He swallowed then repeated, “Good. I’m sure it’s easier dating women than men.” I
nodded my head. I hoped.

Author’s Note: I wrote this story thinking about the warm and incomparable comfort of a kind father. I hope it reminds you of the solace you get from coming home. 

Bio: Adrianne Beer received her BFA in creative writing from Bowling Green State University and went to library school at the University of Arizona. She is from Yellow Springs, Ohio. Her writing can be found in Moon City Review, Chicago Reader, Southwestern American Literature, and elsewhere.