Bohemia Village Voice

The Dress

With tired, calloused hands and sore eyes, she struggled to concentrate under the work lamp’s harsh light all through the early hours. The floor boss shouted, making her flinch. Frantically she sewed. Faster!
The model, still coked up from lunch, sashayed expertly down the catwalk causing the supple fabric to ripple and shimmer like silver fire under the glare of the spotlights. Perfect line, perfect cut, it demanded – and received – the loudest applause of the night.
On a rail in the exclusive designer store, the dress caught the eye of a rich man’s wife. She held it against herself, fantasising. Flushed, she handed the dress to the smiling, jealous sales manager.
That evening, as she smoothed the liquid material over her gym-toned thighs, she knew the dress looked sensational on her.
He would not be able to ignore her this time.
But at the cocktail party, he didn’t even notice – deliberately, she assumed – nor did he see the lewd looks the dress drew from just about every other man in the room. Drunk and angry, she flirted outrageously to rile him.
They were silent in the cab home and later rowed so fiercely she slapped him, her wedding ring opening a cut near his eye. In a rage, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her so violently he ripped the dress.
She barely heard the door slam as she lay sobbing on the bed.
Although the maid was ordered to get rid of the dress, she could not bring herself to throw away such an exquisite, beautifully-fashioned object. And knowing she’d never have the courage to wear it, even if she were slim, she folded the dress and placed it in a charity clothes container. As she turned away, she feared for her future now the master had left.
It was so hot it was almost unbearable. However long he stayed in this fucking country, it was impossible to get used to the heat and humidity. The mercenary would be bloody glad when this was all over and he could get hold of his money and back pay and sod off on a cruise or something.
The children in the missionary village ran screaming towards the truck as it braked violently amidst clouds of dry, choking dust. Before the aid workers were able to unload, the children swarmed over the back of the truck, rifling through the mounds of old clothes, shouting and arguing.
In the middle of the scramble, an older girl did not need to push or shove to get what she wanted. The others seemed to know this girl was not to be reckoned with, as she picked up the dress, childishly fascinated by how it shimmered like liquid fire in the blazing afternoon sun.
Reports indicated that guerrillas, mostly child soldiers, were approaching and as he wiped the sweat from his eyes, he laughed. At that moment, some yards off, he glimpsed a sparkle of light. He squinted and in that split second it took him to register, in disbelief, that the gun trained on him was held by a beautiful girl in a sexy silver dress, she opened fire.
The last of the rebels hid in a maize field, cornered. The dress, which to the girl leader had become a symbol of status and prowess, was easily spotted through the telescopic night viewer as it glinted greenishly under the moonlight.
The high explosive bullet tore into the dress, tearing open the soft, sensuous fabric, staining it irreversibly red.