Art by Fraylim: Red "Homemaker" Dress

A reader recently asked if there was any artwork of Cindy in her "homemaker" dress, the vintage-inspired, red with white polka dots dress worn when first cleaning the apartment in Book 4, and again at Mr Connor's home in Book 6.

There wasn't. But now, there is!

Please enjoy! And if you like it, why not let Fraylim know?

For reference, here's the text from the story linked to the picture:

From Book 4, Chapter 2:

When Julia arrived later that night, she found me hard at work cleaning.  She caught me in a cute homemaker dress, one she’d bought me on a whim a few months back, this little red number with white polka dots, really 1950s vintage-inspired and flouncy with a nipped in waist.  My makeup was done up all proper to match, I’d slipped on some thigh highs and heels, and with cheery music on in the background I busily carved my little oasis of peace and tidiness out of the mucky mess of the previous three months.

            And why was I dressed like a sitcom housewife from the 50s?  Because at that precise moment, that’s who I wanted to be.  Or rather, that was the part I wanted to present, the happy homemaker, the cheerful cleaner because, frankly, if this was going to be my home for the next six months somebody had to do something about the goddamn mess. 

And from Book 6, Chapter 4:

A smile plays across his lips. “Wear the red dress. The one with polka dots. And the matching shoes.”

            A little frisson sweeps through me, and I give a little clap of glee. “Oh, I was hoping you’d pick that one.”

            Twenty minutes later, dress on, face on, I’m back downstairs and stirring up homemade pancakes. With every movement, the red homemaker dress with white polka dots swirls around my knees, and my heels click on the tiled kitchen floor. Mr. Connor’s at the table, watching. I haven’t worn this dress since Julia and I went separate ways. Putting it on, I am reminded of the funeral, of the first time I wore it for her, and the times in between. Haunted by a vague sense of nostalgia, I lightly stir sugar, baking powder and salt into the flour, then whisk together milk, egg and oil.

            Meanwhile, the pan’s heating up. After folding the liquid into the dry ingredients, I gently wet the flour. Soon, the first batch is sizzling in the pan, strips of bacon under the grill and a pair of plates warming in the oven. Once the batter begins to bubble, I flip it over. The whole time, I’m humming something indistinct, probably Sin-DI, as I flutter around the stove, feeling—happy; happier than I have in a long time. It’s nearly euphoric, like the giddy sense of relief after a lengthy illness passes. There’s pleasure in the sensation of the dress and its silky sweep against stockings, the smell of the pancakes, the weight of his gaze watching my every motion. I’m enjoying the performance of cooking for someone other than myself. I’m enjoying being—me.

And finally, Book 6, Chapter 5:

            Now it’s my turn, busily buzzing around the kitchen in a flap of skirts and clicking heels, getting Christmas dinner started. There wasn’t much left, he says, just slim picking in the shops last night. Still, I’ve got something to work with: a turkey crown wrapped in strips of bacon; a bag of sprouts; some potatoes; carrots. He opens a bottle of red as I figure out the timings. I slice the carrots, peel tatty leaves from the sprouts. Over the red dress with polka dots, I wear an apron in pale peach trimmed in red, decorated with chillies. It reads ‘Hot and Spicy… and the food’s pretty good too.’

            He comes up behind me as I’m peeling curls of orange into a roasting dish of sliced carrots. With his arms wrapped around me, he nuzzles my neck. I go: Mm, push my bum into his groin and feel the hardness there. It’s hard to cook with someone mauling your tits, with his hands roaming up and down my body. Eventually, I push him away and level a hard look his way. I throw a slice of carrot at him. He grins, so do I and he pours out a glass of wine and brings it to me. I put him to work peeling the potatoes, then salt the water and put it to boil. I flavour the carrots, toss in butter and thyme, cover and place the dish in the oven. Mr. Connors cuts and drops the potatoes one by one in simmering water. Once he’s done, I give him a kiss on the cheek. In return, he pinches my bum. I throw a whole carrot at him, and he laughs. Hands in pockets, he saunters away to sort the decorations, leaving me with the warm contentment of having spent twenty minutes in his company.

            Once parboiled, I drain the potatoes and give them a shake in the colander, then drizzle oil, salt and pepper, sprinkle over a little crushed garlic and add them to the oven, along with the turkey. Then I join him in the room at the front of the house.