What I Wore

The zipper starts at the hip and asks a question all the way to the collarbone. I answer it with one pull. The hem falls where I pinned it — three inches above what I would have chosen if chosen were the word. I fasten the clasp at the back by feel, the way I've always fastened it — muscle memory for a muscle nobody's watching flex. The black dress — that's the armor. The silver chain — that's the alibi. The heel, the quarter-inch too high — that's the argument I'm having with the floor. The earring, one — that's the dare. The lipstick in a shade called almost there — that's the... I button the cuff and the button resists. A small negotiation. I win. The cuff loses nothing. The mirror checks the fit from shoulder seam to knee. I adjust the strap a quarter-inch. The quarter-inch adjusts nothing anyone will measure. I pull the collar straight. I pull it crooked. A latch that clicks but will not catch. The belt — that's the perimeter. The bracelet — that's the clock I wear on the wrong wrist so I'll stop checking. The second heel — that's the commitment. The coat over everything — that's the lobby before the building starts. The mirror gets the full rehearsal — the turn, the pause, the angle people see when I decide to arrive. I adjust the clasp again. The clasp was fine. I am building someone out of hardware, and she will walk into a room tonight and sit exactly where I put her. She will turn when spoken to at the angle I practiced. She will be flawless, and no one will have sent for her. The perfume — that's the perimeter I wear outside the first. The key card in the clutch — that's the exit in formal dress. The whole arrangement, clasp to heel to hemline — that's the woman someone would have