The Dress

I used to write all the time. My parents, especially my mother, can attest to that. She bought me journals that I filled in a matter of months. I filled them with my thoughts. My poems. My songs. My stories. I used to paint and draw also, and just recently picked that back up. And tonight I got the urge to write again also. Maybe this year brings a rebirth to my old hobbies - art and writing, who knows. 

I'll preface what I wrote by telling those that don't know me well that I'm weird. I'm aware of it. A bit of a geek. A hint of oddball-ness, A sprinkle of dork. And a dash of dramatic. So you'll feel that in my writing. Forgive me for the randomness of my writings, it's another one of my many quirks - randomness. I simply write what comes to me. And I typically don't write in first person but I wanted to try something new. Enjoy.

I sat there in my dress. A dress so new that hours earlier I had just cut off the tags and nobody has seen me in it yet. I sat there in my dress at the table. The candles lit. The house filled with the scent of a dinner complete and ready to be consumed. I sat there knowing he wasn't coming but holding on to hope. The one thing that never lets me down. The one thing I can't let go of. Hope.
I looked up at the chandelier. That stupid chandelier. It was half brass and donned a plastic bag the day before - I was in the midst of painting it then. I finished painting it right before I completed dinner.  It hung directly above the dining table and I wanted it complete before the dinner I made wasn't consumed. Never consumed. I knew it wouldn't get consumed. Because that meant he'd have to come. And he wasn't coming. I felt it in my bones. And if he didn't come I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't even be hungry. Even if I was I wouldn't eat. It would be my twisted self-punishment for not being a good enough person for him to show up for. It would be my dirty little secret.
My empty stomach and I sat at the table for 30 minutes. Hoping. Looking at my phone. Longing to see his name pop up. Thinking. Then not thinking. Staring. Then looking all around. Humming. Then sitting in silence. Head in hands. Then head resting on the back of the imperfect leather chair. Eyes filling with tears, then fighting to pull them back. Then bursting into uncontrollable laughter at my weakness. I'm so fucking weak. I got up and walked to the kitchen. I poured a glass of wine then went to lock the front door. I left it open earlier in case he was planning to surprise me by showing up unexpectedly. But he wasn't showing up, that much was clear. So I locked the door. I locked the door then leaned against it.
The house quiet. I looked around. The pillows on the couch in a perfect row. The table perfectly set with empty plates and food that was now cold. The television off. My thoughts on. I was alone. My house was filled but only with things, not with people. I looked around and saw so much, yet I didn't see the one thing I truly wanted - him.
I stood there wishing I knew how to express to him how I feel about him. And just how much I love him. I wish I could take his hand and he would immediately feel what I feel. I know our love is new, but I know our love is real, and raw, and passionate, and beautiful. I know that if he would just take my hand and make that leap of faith we would move mountains together. I know that in him I found my best friend, my confidante. But he doesn't believe that. And I know he doesn't believe that because he wasn't there with me sitting under the no longer brass chandelier, eating, laughing, sharing inside jokes.
I left the food on the table. The pot on the stove. I went upstairs to change. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I walked to my closet. I stopped and studied my reflection. Standing there in a dress, hair disheveled from leaning against the front door. I looked and felt like a heartbroken teenager that was stood up by her prom date.
But I never had a date. I only had an indescribable love for a man that didn't make it to dinner. And a dress that, still, nobody has seen.

Xo,

Lor