Ancilla

Binah (part 3)

   My twenty-third birthday – our official second anniversary – is coming up in a few days. A nearby symphony is performing Tristan und Isolde in its entirety as an orchestral piece with chorale and vocal soloists on that weekend, so this year, we're celebrating by traveling up north to hear it from the good seats in the front of the lower balcony in the concert hall. Since neither of us likes to go through money as if it's water, we're hearing it as a matinee.

   That will also leave us plenty of time later that evening to find other, more private ways to celebrate the occasion.

   I don't have anything particularly nice to wear to the symphony, having by now outgrown the vintage granny gown I wore to my sorority formal years ago, and decided, after adding an extra tier of lace to the bottom of the gown so that it would cover my ankles again, that the result just looked weird. This is why I'm browsing the racks at the thrift store that's within walking distance of our apartment, searching for any kind of clothing that might be useful for occasions requiring fancy dress. (The thrift store, fortunately, is not a Salvation Army store; after the Salvation Army turned me away from a shelter on one of the coldest nights of the year for being "sinful" and "unnatural," I have no desire to give them any of my money. Yes, it was years ago, and it was probably my fault for answering truthfully when the captain who ran the shelter asked me why I had nowhere to sleep that night, but there are some things I just can't let go of).

   One of the nice things about not seeing my bank account in a constant state of hemorrhage due to household bills is that I actually have some money left over from my job after paying tuition for my college courses and contributing somewhat to my upkeep. Magister objected to my helping with non-rent household expenses at first, on the grounds that I should be saving for any present and future college-related expenses, but my argument for a while has been that as long as I can afford to help out a little, I will; I refuse to be a burden or, worse yet, something of a cross between a dependent and a household pet. This month I have enough disposable income that I can splurge some of it.

   Usually going shopping would involve browsing for books, but today I'm looking for clothing. It doesn't take long for me to remember that I find shopping for clothing to be a purgatorial experience.

   Almost nothing ever fits me well. I like to borrow Magister's shirts, because they cover my arms down to the wrists rather than halfway past my elbows, which means I can make up my own mind about whether I want to roll them up or down; they don't seem fancy enough on their own for a symphony outing, though, which means I'm looking through racks of women's apparel for something that's pretty, but that also has sleeves long enough to cover a gorilla's arms, and preferably is long enough in the trunk that I don't wind up displaying my navel when I wear it.

   Eventually, an unusual black velvet blouse appears, peeking out from a hidden spot on the plus-size shirt rack. It's long enough that I guess it must have been a tunic or a short minidress on anyone of a more normal height than mine, and the lace accents and black faceted buttons (surely, they aren't made of real jet) make it look vaguely Victorian. The velvet is soft and reminds me of nights spent between the sheets and of the things Magister and I do between those sheets. It wants to be touched.

   I grab it before someone else can find it and look for a coordinating skirt. All I own for bottoms are leggings, sweatpants, some jeans and slacks sized for adolescent boys, and a hand-sewn drawstring skirt I made from a massive tube of calico fabric on one of my more creative days. None of these are appropriate formalwear.