Hope Is a Little Black Dress

Hello, baby….

She looked up — a buzz of recognition bringing a smile to the corners of her candy-flavored lips.

I’ve been waiting for you.

Taking a step forward, she hesitated.


The aisle crowded over with all the reasons why she shouldn’t.

You know it will be perfect.

She did.

But she shouldn’t.

But it would be…

And she abandoned her responsibilities for the nearest changing room.

And it was.

Damn, baby.

The woman in the mirror was 1940s elegance with a touch of 1950s pinup; the black fabric draping, flouncing and clinging as though custom made.

Reaching for her denim skirt and pink blouse…

She turned, stepped back, turned again, seeing herself in this dress by candlelight. Across a table. At an art gallery opening. At the symphony.

Didn’t I tell you, baby?

And she knew it was hers.

Leaving the store with possibilities wrapped in tissue and a bow, her phone rang.

When would this candlelight dinner, this art gallery opening, this symphony performance happen?

A fair point, she thought.

The dress would look good for a zombie apocalypse too. With cherry-red lipstick of course.




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