Art by Fraylim: Red Dress

I'll admit to cheating a little with this one. This lovely piece of art by Fraylim was posted sometime ago, also lost when I reset the tiers to come subscribers. I held back on reposting it. Initially an image wanting for a scene, it's become relevant to the current chapter. That chapter draft should be ready to drop tomorrow, but for now here's a peek at the relevent text:

From Constant Book 5, Chapter Six:

Irrasshaimase! shouted from the kitchen. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, and behind a long counter a chef made rapid slices into a slab of marbled fish. A young Japanese waitress led me to a table. She was short—so, about my height—and wore a pretty blue dress, black hair cut in a bob framing her face, cute, small nose, dimpled chin. “For one?” she asked.

            “Two,” I said. “Thank you.”

            I ordered an Asahi. She left me with a small bowl of salted edamame. I watched her return to the bar, pour the drink, come back. I smiled at her. “Thanks.” With a horizontal sweep of nails, she brushed the hair out of her eyes. Purple and yellow eyeshadow, nose stud glinting in the light. It was nearly seven and he was late. Edo was just around the corner from his apartment, but he was late. At this time of night the izakaya was bustling, with couples sat at booths, several men at the counter, and a well-dressed woman on her own, too, hunched over a bowl of ramen. The place was busy, but the waitress seemed unconcerned.

            “Get you anything else?”

            “A guy who actually shows up on time?”

            She giggled, tucked her hair behind an ear. Dangling earrings, little pink cat face and bow. “Cute earrings,” I said. She beamed with pleasure, told me where she bought them, a little boutique shop downtown I’d passed a few times but never visited. I made a mental note to check it out.

            Irrasshaimase! the man shouted again, and she rolled her eyes. “Love that dress,” she said, “so vintage,” and scurried off. The dress was red and short with a plunging neckline. It tied behind the neck and left my shoulders and most of my back bare. It showed off a lot of cleavage. My nails were red to match, lipstick too, and seven-centimeter heels. It was too much, really. Better if the waitress was wearing it, or any of the other girls out tonight. That woman over at the counter, for example, instead of that professional-looking skirt suit. She’d look great in this dress. Or out of it.

            I’d dressed for after-work drinks with Willow, changing in the toilets at Volumina International after shutting down for the day. My work outfit was carefully folded at the bottom of my bag: black pencil skirt, pale blue blouse, pink bra. But then she flaked out, which tracked for Willow. Less than a month of hanging out with these girls, and she was always dropping out at the last minute. But I liked her. She was a hell of a lot of fun. Get a few drinks in her, and she swore like a sailor. But a few more, and she might turn dark, seriously dark, deep trauma and the sight of the drowned dead at a young age, family and friends, gone. Then she’d cry and go quiet. Or not. You couldn’t really tell with Willow.

            But the trip over to Jonas’s neighborhood, the press of the bus and then the short walk, dressed as I was? A red dress burns like a fire in a forest at night. Blonde curls and hoop earrings, the click of heels on pavement and eyes, male eyes, tracking every movement. I was hot—fuck yeah, I was—but trotting down those unfamiliar streets brought a frisson of discomfort. A pair of dickheads wolf-whistled as I passed; every male gaze—and a few girls, too, I wasn’t blind to that—latched on to my tits. And who could blame them? My tits were fucking fantastic. And they were on display. I didn’t want the things, but they were sexy as hell. And I could’ve swapped back to work clothes, I suppose, but once out of that pencil skirt, the pantyhose, I didn’t want to, the dress was breezy, more comfortable on a balmy early October evening. I just hoped the dress didn’t freak Jonas out too much. The kid was skittish, shy around pretty girls. But also, he said I made him feel like a man; good. I wanted him confident tonight. And this dress? A reminder he was in the company of one hell of a woman.

            Now, sitting alone, I waited. With a gentle squeeze, I teased beans from their pods, licked the salt. Sipped beer. My nails were a vivid red to match my dress. I was still getting used to them. They were new, an unfamiliar weight at the tip of each finger.  Only yesterday, Mel insisted I join her at her favorite nail salon. You’ll love it, she said, can’t believe you’re not already doing it, this shit’s been around for years, long enough for the cost to come down, it’s not just a rich-bitch, celebrity thing anymore.