Walking down the aisle, I thought, oh God, please don’t let me fall. I bargained with Him each step of the way toward my groom. Steven grinned madly above
his black bow-tie, eyes glittering in the dimly lit Grand Ballroom of the Hotel
Pierre, New York City. It was February, and my feet were freezing but sweaty
in flimsy satin pumps purchased especially for theoccasion and obviously
never to be worn again. The wedding party had been drinking champagne
since we posed for formal portraits hours earlier, and my legs were unsteady
while the smile trembled on my lips.
A GIRL LIKE ME
I recognized Jack’s wife immediately from the wallet-sized photo I’d found one afternoon, tucked behind his MasterCard. Yes, I’d rifled through my lover’s wallet while he’d lain napping on my bed, naked and defenseless. Now, stepping into the reception area my psychiatrist shared with a colleague, I identified the demure visage of Jack’s wife. I’d memorized her face during that soporific tryst, studied it carefully while lounging nude and sweaty on my rumpled sheets with Jack sprawled beside me, long-legged and bare-assed, snoring.
Pull the hair back from your face and tuck it into a wig net. Choose the wine-red wig; torrents of burgundy ringlets fall to your shoulder blades. Become Alexis.
Wear a short skirt, but not too short. Faded denim, above the knee, hugging
your butt—no underwear. Alexis is wise, free in ways most women don’t dream of. August in New York City: petal-pink tank top, nipples flat and wide from heat, breasts’ curved undersides damp with sweat. Long legs, delicate ankles, feet in pink pumps with three-inch heels that arch the lower spine, pitch the pelvis forward. The angle of the shoe exaggerates the curve of the calf, makes the foot look arched, delicate. The mirror shows: a tapered waist, dainty shoulders tilted back, c-cup breasts thrust out, long, wild, wine-red tresses cascading.