These days I usually wear comfortable trousers and boots. And the freeness of my body, now, under the loose embrace of these fragile scraps, is startling. My ankles tremble in the high heels; my flesh feels untethered, unstable. Or perhaps freed, blithe, careless.
I run fingers up my naked thighs, under the hem of the dress, raise it with a mocking smirk towards the mirror. It feels delicious, this gloating. Then I see the empty room, how ridiculous I am. And I let the hem fall, and strip it all off me.