Wednesday, April 29, 2009
They perform the dance once more. The peacock show of desire and frustrated need and want weighed against a barrage of social mores and “but my father…” He watches her fingers as they button her boots. One, two, three… until the leather encases her calves and she ties the tops with a lace criss-crossed through three holes and stands, looking at him through lashes elongated with mascara. She pulls on a velvet coat with bustle and cinched waist and he is desperate to take her in his arms. “Go,” she says, and means it well enough but is still disappointed when he obeys, turning with one last glance over the fence she has built around her desire. But is he fenced out or is she fenced in?