I like your dress

“I like your dress”

It was a beautiful day. The sun hit my skin with no heat, the wind sent only the slightest of kisses, and the clouds had no desire to see my flesh ripple with raised hairs. The leaves crunched pleasantly under my feet, and the glow of day brought forth no glare of excess light to impede the sight of reddened leaves and still-bright grass.

“i like your dress.”

There are flyers to be placed, noting some event some club is hosting somewhere with something attractive in hopes of gaining attendance from someone. I try not to forget to put them up this time.

“I like your dress.”

The shop owners were kind, ready aid our pleas for support. It’s for the children, I say, as I ask local owners to feed college students. We will put your business on a banner, I reassure, because it’s never only just for the children. Although we try. This effort not out of greed but mutual understanding of our effort, their effort, the effort to promote goodness.

“I like your dress.”

He speaks. I turn, but its not to address the speaker. I turn so he may stop looking at his real fixation. I watch his eyes move, dejected, black eyes finally acknowledge my face. Thanks, I say, because I am weak and society denies my right as a human. I turn and glimpse his black eyes drop below my chin and feel my stomach accompanying his gaze.

“I like your dress.”

I go home, cold, with raised goose bumps, and tell my boyfriend that my transition into my oldest pj’s is because they are more comfortable than what I had on.

“I like your dress.”