March 13, 2008
THE FITTING
| LOUISE NORLIE |
Time was at low tide. I stood in the fitting room, my waist a spool of measuring tape. Don’t move, the women chirped with bits of fabric in their mouths. Not an inch, not a breath! Darting their heads like sparrows, their fingers trimmed, clipped, snipped in precise strokes. The dress rustled and purred, whispered and sighed. My back bled from innumerable pokes and pricks, itched from layers of lace. The attendants parted the curtains and showed me the mirror. I peered over my shoulder at my silhouette, choking back my tears. It was no use. The dress had taken its toll. My back was hunched, my expression strained with exertion, my hair gone silver. The women fluttered to adjust the dress once more, all in vain. In frustration they spit pins. Threads trailed from their lips. Behind the easel the painter reclined, her knobby knees protruding on both sides of the canvas. Her portrait was not of me at all, but of a lithe blonde in a gauzy gown, her thin limbs spread and fastened amongst a butterfly collection. Enough, I sobbed, ripping the dress at its seams. The tide sucked at my feet. The women screeched, threw darts. I would topple soon, dress and all, smothering them in its luscious folds.
By day, Louise Norlie plows through miles of traffic to crunch numbers and shuffle papers in a windowless cubicle. By night, she dreams of better things. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Sein und Werden and Mad Hatter’s Review. Later this year, she will be published in anthologies from Dead Letter Press and Bettany Press. For updates on her publications see http://louise-norlie.livejournal.com.