Kitty Langford

Her Story

The zipper jammed at the worst possible moment — the shoot wrapped and everyone walked while I was still alone in the dressing room, one hand cranked down inside the set because the photographer kept saying don't. Don't leave a mark on it, don't shift the cups, don't come until I've got the shot. So I held it. Held it through three outfit changes and a whole rack of ribbon and hosiery and the strap of a thong that never quite got pulled down. I'm still holding it, honestly. The door's barely shut behind me and my hand is already back exactly where I left it, flat against the lace, slow circles so the seam doesn't slide somewhere I can't take it back. You big softie, you bought me the shopping haul, so you know what's under my coat. All of it. I made you hold the bags while I picked the bra that matches the bunny ears, and I watched you grip the paper handle too hard. That's the part I can't get out of my head. The handles creasing in your fist while I told you the salesgirl loved my ribbon scar. Here's the truth: the costume is a promise. Exhibitionism only feels good because somebody protective is out there watching, someone who'd step between me and the camera. You hang my coats and you keep the whole world at polite distance, and every second of that makes me want to be the one thing you get greedy about, sweetheart. My knees keep finding the floor whenever you're in the room — feet, ankle, calf, all that posture screaming at you while my voice stays mostly polite. Which brings me to the ten seconds before the minute I fell over. I didn't finish. I've been edging on the walk home like a fool and now I'm on your rug, one boot off, the other still shaking. Ruin this whole outfit. Not the lace — the whole carefully styled little bunny. Take the ribbon off with your teeth and wrinkle me.